A song of Rings, Tears, and Wrath
by Lorithomar
Summary: When Fëanor and his followers sailed out of Valinor in the pursuit of Morgoth, and Fingolfin and his people crossed the Helcaraxë, both parties emerged onto a much different continent, far to the East, a continent of men, where the heirs of Finwë could forge a new nation. But within this continent, a strange melody, a song, is playing, both of, and not of, Eru's harmony...
1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

**The Watcher**

Every day, the atani adhered to his daily routine. It was a solitary one, but kind and gentle in its simplicity.

He woke up and stood watch from his modest tower, looking over the border between his home and the rest of the continent. A buffer between his lord's home, and the kingdoms of man that lay to the south.

He had awoken today, not expecting anything of note to be seen or occur.

He then looked over the battlements and stroked his beard in wonder at the sight that was slowly amassing before him.

Hm.

It would seem that perhaps Eru had seen fit to disabuse him of his previous notion of a mundane morning on this fine Friday.

It was a large procession, full of soldiers and wagons and horses and things. Even from here, he could feel their intent, full of purpose, and a hint of battle-born bloodlust. They were carrying many banners, the greatest of which seemed to be a red, three-headed dragon on a field of black, all the while breathing fire.

With a raised brow, he took up his notched stave, descended from his tower, and strode out of the front door towards the front of this host, undeterred by the shouts of alarm from the host's soldiers, and the amount of steel that was bristling his way.

That seemed a bit rude, as he was only clad in boiled-and-studded leather, a surcoat, strong boots, gloves, and a cloak to keep out the morning chill.

"Good Morning," he called out in the tongue of man towards the leader since he doubted that there were any among them that could speak the tongue of his home.

He made sure that the look upon his face was serene and amiable. "May I ask what has brought you to these borders this fine day, men of the south?"

The leader, a powerfully built man adorned in black armor, and with a crown of steel and ruby, looked down upon the simple atani with curious disdain. "Who are you, man?" he said, in a tone that seemed to demand respect. "What is your purpose in approaching us so brazenly?"

Seeking to be humble, the atani gave him a bow. "My name is Brandon, son of Theon. I am the humble Steward of this border and the humble keeper of the tower of _Duin Tir_. My only purpose at the moment is to ascertain as to what it is that you want by approaching this border"

"You watch over the entire border?" the woman on the left of the host's leader, a lithe figure whose silver hair was bound in a simple braid at the front, asked him as she looked over the mist-enshrouded lands about them.

Brandon nodded. "Indeed, my lady. It is a sacred and cherished duty that has been passed down through my family since the Arrival, surviving even the battle of Ice and Fire itself, over twelve thousand years ago."

A man with red hair then strode up to the mounted leader, before any more could be said. "Be wary, my king. The men of this fell country are not like us. Their eldritch masters keep them all bewitched and enraptured with strange enchantments."

Brandon quirked an eye at the man, a river lander, by his looks. "There is little need to be so rude, man of the Riverlands. I am not bewitched by anything. I am but a humble Steward and atani." He then fixed his eyes back upon the leader of the host. "Now, as to my earlier question, my lord… Why have you come to these borders with such a mighty host at your heels?"

The leader looked down upon Brandon with a strange intensity in his purple eyes. "I wish for you to tell your masters that I, Aegon Targaryen, King of Westeros, wish to speak with the lords of these lands."

"May I ask as to why?"

"To discuss terms."

"Terms of what, if I may inquire?"

The woman on the man's right, a voluptuous figure who kept her hair in an intricate braid, suddenly spoke up. "What is the point of these inane questions? Are you some sort of halfwit? Tell your lords that their rightful and future king has arrived and wishes to speak with them!"

Brandon remained non-plussed in the wake of the woman's proclamation. The man at the front briefly looked at her with annoyance, and then turned back towards Brandon. "My sister, though rash in her outburst, does speak truthfully. I wish to make terms with your leaders about the future of this land."

Brandon looked upon the man, his armor, the large sword strapped at his side, and the host at the man's back.

He then nodded. "I understand. Please wait here. I shall inform the High King as to your arrival, Aegon Targaryen."

* * *

**The Conqueror**

Aegon watched as the strange man strode back into the tower, a strange, squat thing of oddly symmetrical gray stone.

He then turned to Edmyn Tully. "He seemed unafraid by our arrival. Why?"

The Riverlord shrugged, unease on his face. "I cannot say, my king. The men of these lands have always been strange. They don't hold to the seven or the Old gods. There has always been a feeling of fey about them, to say nothing of their unseen masters and kings."

Rhaenys turned to him with a questioning brow. "You have never seen them, these masters of theirs?"

Edmyn shook his head. "No, your Grace. None in these lands have. Though, at times, odd and sorrowful melodies and lights can be seen and heard through the mists in the night. All that is known is that when the Andals sent an army to attack, not a single soul returned. Even Harren, in all his madness, never sent any ships past the Neck or any raiding parties past this border. When the atani venture from these lands, which is not often, they are always left well alone."

Aegon stroked his chin as he peered at the mists. Interesting.

A moment later, the strange man descended from his squat tower and strode back towards Aegon and his sisters with an amiable look upon his face. "I have sent words to my lords, and received a message that I had not foreseen."

His gaze was clear as he looked upon Aegon. "It would seem that you were expected, Lord Aegon. High King Fingolfin has been traveling towards Duin Tir for the past few days and is currently departing from the region of Avernien. Rest assured, he and the royal procession should be arriving here in a few hours. He is very interested in meeting you. Until then, he respectfully bids you make yourself comfortable as you wait. If you like, I humbly offer you refreshments from my own stores."

He then gave a strange and kindly smile. "As luck would have it, I have just been brewing a fresh pot of tea, and a fresh loaf of lemon cake. Would you, your fine sisters, or your rude riverman be interested in a cup and a slice? I do regret that I have not enough for your entire and mighty host."

Aegon looked upon the man. Was there truly something the matter with him? He was actually offering them tea and cake? It was simply bizarre.

Nevertheless, he decided to entertain the man. "Very well. That would be sufficient, Brandon."

The man bowed, and happy smile on his face. "Most excellent. I shall gather the refreshments and a table."

Next to him, Visenya scoffed. "Brother, we should not be wasting our time here. Tea and cakes? This all smacks of sorcery. I think we should take our dragons and burn this strange land to ash, and then pillage the remains. For that matter, how are we to believe that he actually talked with his lords? He was only gone for less than an hour. More to the point, how would they already be expecting us?"

Rhaenys shrugged. "No need to be so rash, Visenya. There should be little harm in at least resting here for a few hours, and he seemed remarkably clear for a supposed madman. Besides, it is not unlikely that word and tales of our conquest have already spread. Perhaps they simply wish to avert a needless war, and have to come to negotiate?"

The hours passed by, and Brandon proved himself to be an excellent host with an excellent repast, despite Aegon and Visenya's reservations, though Rhaenys wasted no time in seemingly charming him, which she was excellent at doing, and the air was filled with amiable conversation. He talked amiably and often, almost as if he could not get enough. It made Aegon wonder just how long the man had been living in his strange and squat tower by himself since he seemed to be the only one here.

As the sun began to slowly sink through the mists, a loud and clear clarion horn suddenly sounded.

At that, Brandon suddenly stood and began to gather up the food from the small table and chairs he had brought out. "It would seem that the High King has nearly arrived. Please, allow me to make the introductions. Wait here but a moment longer, Lords and Ladies."

After depositing the food back into his tower, he vanished into the mists, while Aegon, his sisters, and his army made ready to meet the lords of this strange land.

A minute passed by.

Five minutes.

Ten.

At about thirty minutes, when Visenya began to irritably drum her fingers against Dark Sister's hilt, the sound of hoofbeats and countless footsteps echoed out.

Then, Brandon emerged through the mists. "The High King has arrived."

The mist then began to lessen, and from it stepped a large procession of soldiers, and their armor was shining and immaculate with colors of silver, gold, white and even woodland greens and browns, though their surcoats and cloaks were of many colors. They all seemed to march in almost impossible unison. Many banners were fluttering, and bore many symbols; A silver harp on black, a hammer and anvil on red, a white tower on purple, a sun on gold, and many more. The most prominent was held at the front, and it bore the symbol of a strange, multicolored sun comprised of gold, red, purple, blue, white, and silver stars.

The soldiers seemed to stretch on into the mists, and at the back... seemed to loom giant figures.

This mighty force, it marched forward until they were about six feet from Aegon and his now alert army and sisters.

The sunlight glistened off the soldier's weapons and arms. Each was girt in a full helm with a metal crest, plate and scales and leathers, and curved sword, while they carried either a spear and shield or bow and arrows.

Large figures loomed in the distance...

For a long moment, no one dared to move.

Then, as one, the ranks parted to let through a small procession of riders, but it was the figure at the front that Aegon, and indeed, the rest of his host, felt drawn towards.

The figure was mounted upon a stallion whiter than snow, caparisoned in shining armor. Its rider was equally armored.

Before he walked Brandon.

As the horsemen halted, Brandon then called out. "I present to you Fingolfin, Son of Finwë and Indis; Lord of the Gray Fleet, High King of the Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Laiquendi, Silvan, Norsa, Drúedain, and Atani, and King and Sovereign Of all of Beleriand, stretching all from the snows of North to the mists of South, and bearer of the royal swords, Ringil and Magol!"

The head rider looked upon Aegon during the entire proclamation, whilst Aegon did his best to stare back up at him unflinchingly.

Then, the named king dismounted and started to approach.

Beside him, Aegon heard Rhaenys and Visenya let loose small gasps.

Even on foot, this figure was taller than Aegon, and lithe with muscle. But, when he walked, it was with decidedly inhuman grace. His armor was so perfect that it decidedly put Aegon's own raiment to shame.

He wore no helmet, and his hair was black and straight. To Aegon's slight shock, he noted that the figure's ears were pointed. Upon the figure's brow was a circlet of filigree, inset with a gem that seemed to glow with an almost divine radiance. At first, it seemed simpler than Aegon's own crown of black steel and rubies, but yet, it also seemed grander. The gem especially, Aegon had to exert a conscious effort to wrest his gaze away from it.

The figure's eyes, set into a pale and inhumanely symmetrical face, were clear and grey, and held within them a strange and ancient mein, as he stopped a mere two feet from Aegon's face.

Despite himself, Aegon felt a bit small. Here was truly a figure that could be called king, one meant to rule over all others.

But Aegon would not be cowed, for he was still the blood of the Dragon.

The inhuman king looked upon Aegon and his sisters for a long moment, and then he spoke, in a clear and powerful voice that seemed to carry for leagues, though he was not shouting.

"I bid you greetings to my lands, Aegon Targaryen. I am told that you wish to speak with me."

* * *

**This story will be a triple crossover with elements from The Silmarillion, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and a Song of Ice and Fire. **

**I will do my best.**

**Read, review, and Enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 1_

_44 AC, Off the Coast of Dragonstone_

The Queen-Mother

Alyssa Velaryon could not exactly remember when she started being afraid most of her waking and sleeping hours, but, if she were to hazard a guess, it would have been the moment that she had met her late husband's brother, Maegor, as well as his horrid mother, Visenya.

There had been some relief when he had been exiled to Pentosh, but Visenya had still remained, and Alyssa had still felt afraid. That witch, she had seemed ageless, and cruel, and dark. But at least she had been able to sleep at night.

When the faithful rose in rebellion, and Maegor returned from his exile aside the black dragon, Balerion, and began to rise in power and cruelty as he battled against the faith, Alyssa's fear had returned. As his cruelty rose, spurred on by that witch Visenya, so too did Alyssa's fears, both for herself and for her children. She could not remember the last time that she slept well at all. She had even wept when the monster had burned the Sept of Remembrance to ash.

She could not remember the last time she had slept soundly.

Then, almost in succession came the deaths. First Aenys died, and then he was followed by Aegon, murdered by Maegor only three days ago. Before Aenys' death, Alyssa had taken her youngest child, Jaehaerys, and fled to Dragonstone. She had always hated Dragonstone. But she had no idea where else they could have gone, that Maegor and Visenya would not have found them. That had been fine, as the only other Targaryen on Dragonstone was little Alyssane, the monster's daughter by Ceryse Hightower.

Despite being of the monster's seed, Alyssa found the little girl to be rather gentle and kind in nature, and they grew close, almost like daughter and mother.

Then, an old man had appeared on the island, with a boat large enough for them to flee. No one knew who he was, or how he had gotten on to the island, but Alyssa, feeling desperate, had taken his offer, and he had brought her and the children to a small rowboat docked on the northernmost beach of Dragonstone.

That old man was now swiftly roaring them away from the island in the cover of the night, with a strength that seemed improbable for his apparent age.

The man seemed elderly, if only for how he seemed to associate himself with the color grey. His hair was long and gray, loose under a large gray pointed hat, his robes and leathers were grey, and even his staff was grey. His long grey beard gave him the look of a master, and yet his eyes, set into a tanned and wrinkled face, were a clear and deep blue that seemed to shine with a pearl of wisdom and a dash of youthful humor.

"Where are we going?" Little Alys suddenly asked, cradled in her aunt's arms, having just woken up.

The old man looked upon Alyssa's little niece and gave a kindly smile to his passengers. "We are going to a wonderful and safe land, little princess. To the realm of Beleriand. My friends are waiting nearby, and will help us to get there."

Alyssa blinked, and there, in front of them was a great and graceful ship, and its body was grey so that it barely stood out among the dark of the night sky.

As their little boat approached the vessel, the old man then stood up, surefooted despite the gentle rocking of the boat, tapped his staff against the large hull. A moment later, a long rope ladder unfurled down the side.

"Come, up we go now," the old man said.

With little Alys still in hand, Alyssa and Jae slowly climbed up the ladder, while the old man secured the boat to the ship, and then followed them up.

When Alyssa and Jae set foot upon the deck, they looked about and gasped. Eldar. There were elves on this ship.

The elves were all tall and lithe, with limbs that were long and graceful, yet strong, and all they looked lordly and perfect, despite their simple sailor garb and few scars. Some wore their hair long, others short, and a few even went completely bare of pate. They all looked upon Alyssa and her children with ageless eyes, each set into skin kissed by the sun and wind and seawater.

Alys whimpered in Alyssa's arms, while Jae tried to be brave and stood in front of Alyssa. Alyssa simply looked at the sailors with some trepidation. She had never seen one of the masters of the strange, northern kingdom that bordered Westeros, and now, she and her children were surrounded by them. Then one stepped forward, dressed a bit more richly than the others. His short hair was a pale blonde, and he was garbed in fine and functional garb, embroidered with the shapes of simple stars and waves.

He looked over them with impassive eyes and then turned to the old man, who was quietly leaning upon his stave. _"Mithrandir. Cin gar-hain," _the elf said, the language like music in Alyssa's ears.

The old man nodded his head. _"Im am, mui mellon. Hin are i arat familui-o Westeros. Are mín readui na gwann-?"_

The captain nodded as his eyes roamed over Alyssa and the children. "We are indeed ready to depart. The human's quarters have been prepared, as requested," he said, in an accented voice, though his Westerosi was perfect. "You will find them to be quite comfortable, I can assure you," he then said directly to the family.

The old man then turned to Alyssa and the children. "My lady, and little dragons, may I present to you Cuor, son of Cuorin, a captain in the Grey Fleet of Beleriand, and an old friend. He has come to help us get to safety."

The captain, Cuor, nodded at them, and then turned and stretched out his arm. _"Ech- readui! Mín gwann- hi!_

At the order, the crew began to move about, no doubt preparing the ship for sailing. "Rest assured, everyone, we will soon be safe. Tomorrow, when we dock at Edhellond, you will all set foot upon a wonderful and fantastical land. King Fingolfin is looking forward to hosting you all in his court."

Alyssa looked at him, tears in her eyes. "How can we ever repay you?"

His eyes twinkled. 'Oh, there is no need for that, my lady. I am simply an old wanderer, doing what is right."

* * *

The Queen

"WHERE ARE THEY!?" Maegor screamed, his bellows seeming to echo through the entirety of Dragonstone. "Where is the spawn that is the pretender to my throne!? WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER!?"

Behind him, Visenya followed, still agile despite her sixty-odd years.

After their victory against the attempted usurper and his followers at the God's eye, she and Maegor had rested in the Riverlands for a few days, before heading towards Dragonstone, where the spawn of Rhaenys and Aegon were hiding, along with their mother.

While a part of her felt somewhat reluctant about killing members of her own family, she felt mollified by the fact that she would be erasing the last bit of her family's weakness.

Weakness had to be expunged, after all. Only strength could remain. The dragon had to be strong.

But when they had arrived, they were gone. There were only a few servants and guards remaining on the island, and Maegor had already proceeded to slaughter most of them in a blind rage.

Now, they found the last one, the maester. He was an old grey hair who was just calmly sitting in the garden.

He looked up at their arrival, seemingly nonplussed despite the blood splattered on Maegor's armor. "Ah. Lord Maegor, Lady Visenya. You have arrived."

"Where are they, you little grey rat?" Visenya asked coolly, unlike Maegor.

The old man tilted his head as if confused at the question. "You must forgive me, my lady, but my memory is not what it was in my youth. To whom are you referring?"

With a loud snarl, and barely any effort, Maegor grabbed the master by the throat, and then lifted him straight off the ground by his neck, with his feet dangling a good foot off the ground. "Tell me where they went! Who took them!? Who took my daughter!? Speak, if you want to keep your miserable, traitorous life!"

Then, to Visenya's and Maegor's surprise, the old man… he actually began to laugh, his frail body trembling with each choking guffaw. "A man in grey, he spirited them away, on a grey ship, to grey shores! Surely, you know of what shores I speak, _your highness_? They are beyond your grasp now, you monster!"

Visenya knew instantly what the man was referring to, and a claw of rage twisted around her heart.

The sound of a neck being snapped, it seemed to echo louder than a dragon's roar, bringing the man's laughter to an abrupt end.

Maegor let the corpse drop to the floor, seething as he slowly exhaled through his nostrils.

Slowly, Visneya walked up to him. "Maegor?"

"Grey shores," he murmured, as he fingered a small gold ring on his left hand. "Grey shores…. Beleriand. Of course, it all makes sense!"

"…What does?"

He turned to her, a strange light dancing in his purple eyes. "Those damned elves! They are responsible for it all! They are the reason those fools keep rising against me, why my male children are all born dead and deformed monsters!"

He then strode away. "We fly back to King's Landing!"

"And then what?" Visenya asked as she followed after him.

"The Faith Militant think themselves ready to fight demons and witches and sorcerers. If that is true, then perhaps it is time I point them in the direction of such creatures."

* * *

Visenya stood alongside Maegor as he sat upon the Iron throne in full armor and with Blackfyre in his hands, looking every inch the warrior that he was, as the chosen leaders of the faith Militant filed into the throne room. To Visenya's slight surprise, they had agreed to the King's meeting under a banner of a temporary truce. Though, they were all also armed and armored in a panoply of shining and dull steel.

Once they had all amassed, Maegor cleared his throat. "Knights and representatives of the Faith. I am most glad to see that you have accepted my offer of this meeting."

Damon Morrigen, the Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons, was a tall, sun-kissed man with shining armor and long black, braided hair. At Maegor's words, he looked up and squinted at the king. "Against our better judgment, perhaps, since you have been more than content to slaughter us like dogs since you burnt our Sept to the ground with many of our brethren and innocent worshipers inside."

Maegor nodded. "That is all indeed correct, Ser. But that is in the past. Now, we must look towards the future. Have either of you any idea as to why I called for this meeting, warriors of the faith?"

The members of the Faith militant looked perplexed at the question, and so the High Captain of the Warrior's Sons, Damon, spoke again. "No… we do not."

Maegor's grip around Blackfyre's handle slowly tightened. "Because o' knights and followers of the Seven…. We all have a common enemy."

The knights all looked confused at Megor's declaration. "We… we do?"

"Indeed. It is the elves of Beleriand! They are our true enemy, the enemy of all the goodly, godly, _human_ folk of the Six Kingdoms. You hate them because they are demons. but I? I hate them for a reason most dear to my heart... They have stolen my daughter!"

Maegor then stood in a rattle of steel, causing the assembled Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows, all hardened knights and 'heroes,' to unconsciously flinch and step backward, as if he would suddenly immerse them in fire from his mouth. Visenya had to restrain a snort of derision at their fear of Maegor. It was justified, but hilarious none-the-less.

Maegor cleared his throat. "So, Lords and protectors of the faith, I hereby propose that we put aside our enmity, and pool together our armies and resources, and raze the nation of Beleriand to the ground. Would that not be a thing for the ages? For the songs? Conquering the nation that denied my great father? To save my precious little Alyssane!? Would such a deed not help to solidify all of you in the eyes and annals of the holy Seven, under the mighty and watchful eyes of the Warrior and the Father? If you think it so, then please... join me, and together, we will wipe from the world that foul kingdom of demons and sorcerers!"

As he spoke, he reached out his hand towards the mass of godly men. "So come! Let our hostilities cease, and, in return, I and my mother will take our dragons and armies, and together, as one grand force, we will all raze the elves to ash!"

For a long moment, none of the Faith Militant said anything and just stared at the king and his outstretched hand, as if it were a cornered beast, ready and willing to kill anything in front of it.

Then, one of the Warrior's Sons, a ragged, wild-eyed Septon-knight clad in chainmail and leather robes and a breastplate, he suddenly spoke up. "My fellow Faithful, the king here, he speaks true!"

All turned to look upon the man, spurring him on. "For too long, that unholy nation has flaunted its heresy by its mere existence. For too long, it has perpetuated its sorceries upon the good men of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros, stealing infants, bewitching our children and women! In the Name of the Father and the Warrior and the Stranger, they must be scoured from the land!"

He then drew his sword and planted it point down upon the stone floor. "King Maegor! If you and your dragons were to lead us, then by the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells, I would fight by your side! What say you, my brothers and sisters of the faith!?"

Ser Morrigen looked at the man for a long moment. He turned his gaze towards the rest of his fellow knights and then turned back to the throne. In a swift motion, he too drew his sword, and then he sighed. "Though it pains me to admit it, perhaps you have a point, King Maegor. Though I have not forgotten the horror you have perpetrated upon our brethren, the nation of Beleriand does indeed pose a threat to all of us, from the Riverlands to even the sands of Dorne. Before, the Faithful has never been able to mount an assault of any force upon that nation, but now, with two dragons, we might just have a chance.

"Besides, it is as they said; they have kidnapped your heir, the grandniece of the high Septon himself. They have all but spat into the eyes of the gods for this affront."

Slowly, the High Captain ascended the stairs, sword still in hand, each footstep echoing throughout the room, until he was face to face with Maegor.

He looked down at Maegor's hand, and then grasped it tightly, as he looked back into the eyes of the man that had slaughtered so many faithful. "So yes, King Maegor, if you march with us, then our hostilities will cease. Let us go, and embark upon a great and noble crusade against that nation of demons!"

Even to Visenya, Maegor's smile was a thing of terror and bloodlust, and he now flashed that smile fully. "Yes. A Crusade!"

At that, the rest of the Faith Militant, from Poxy Jeyne Poore to Joffrey the Red Dog, they all drew their swords and weapons and raised them high in the air, as they added their voices to the cheer.

"A CRUSADE! A CRUSADE! A CRUSADE!"

As she watched the accord getting struck, and the cheer resonated through the throne room, Visenya smiled.

For over twenty years, Visenya had always entertained thoughts of taking an army and razing Beleriand and its inhuman masters to ash. She still remembered, with seething rage, that infamous meeting, oh so long ago…..

* * *

**_The Conqueror_**

_Aegon looked upon the inhuman figure, at his immaculate armor, the two swords at his waist, and his simple and grand crown. "You are the High King of these lands?"_

_ The figure nodded. "I am."_

_ Aegon studied the so-called high king before him. "And you know who I am, no doubt?"_

_ The king looked at him. "You are Aegon Targaryen, a hungry conqueror. This I know. Why are you here?"_

_ "Westeros is mine, and I am a king."_

_The High King tilted his head. "I am not disputing any of that. Why bother repeating facts that require no such thing? I only ask what is your purpose in coming to my borders with a full army."_

_ Aegon crossed his arms, his armor rattling. "An odd question, since you have brought your own."_

_"I brought mine to defend these lands. You, on the other hand, brought yours to conquer and slaughter. That is unless there is another reason for the force assembled at your back?"_

_Aegon stood tall. "I am the blood of the dragon, and I deserve a kingdom to rule, to use so as to raise my family up from the ashes of Valyria. This continent and all its lands… they are mine, including these lands. I have come to ask you to surrender your crown, and pledge your fealty to me, Fingolfin. This need not end in Fire and Blood. I would rather not seek out a war with you." _

_ Fingolfin studied Aegon, and, again, the Targaryen king felt… small. Then, he spoke, and it seemed all could hear his voice. "A most pretty speech, full of well-intentions… but sadly, one that is also full of falsehood." _

_ Visenya bristled. "How dare you? Inhuman freak! This is the man who is to be your king. You should be on your knees in supplication for his mercy."_

_ Fingolfin turned his gaze towards her, and Aegon noted that this time, Visenya was the one who seemed to shrink in on her self a bit. "I 'dare' because I have lived longer than your entire bloodline, Visenya Targaryen, and my line and people will thrive long after yours has turned to dust in the wind. I 'dare' because you have just threatened my subjects, elf and atani alike, and, as High King of the Elves and Atani, I am duty-bound to protect them with everything I have, from words to weapons."_

_ He turned his gaze back to Aegon. "I have seen your kind before, Aegon Targaryen. To men such as you, the entire world in the palm of your hand would not be enough, for there is an ever-burning flame of hunger, gnawing on your soul. Even if I were to give you my lands, my blood, my crown, and even all the treasures of my kingdom on silver platters, would you truly be satisfied? Would your hunger then abate, Aegon Targaryen?" _

_ Aegon found that he could not answer. He wanted to deny the creature before him, that he would be satisfied…. But that would be a lie. _

_ A Dragon's burden was that he could never truly be satisfied. _

_ As if sensing his thoughts, Fingolfin tilted his head. "As one sovereign to another, I can wish you only good fortune in your future endeavors in taming the rest of these southern kingdoms. What happens to them is of little-to-no concern of mine. But know this…. Though I offer the hand of cordial friendship and coexistence to you and your descendants, I will not bow my head to you, nor concede to you my crown and lands and their treasures. The Eldar will not bow to you. The Atani will not bow to you. Not now, or ever. You will not claim even a single inch of this kingdom, not even a solitary blade of grass. Not you, or whatever abominations may spring from your unholy couplings."_

_ Visenya had heard enough. With a scream of rage, she rushed forward, Dark Sister's keening edge let loose from her sheathe._

_ Aegon blinked, and one of Fingolfin's swords was free from its sheath. _

_ Even as he started to draw Blackfyre from its sheath, Fingolfin pushed and parried Visenya's blow. Blackfyre was only halfway from its sheath, the sword flashed, and then Visenya howled in pain and staggered back holding her face, as the elf's blade had carved a long scar down Visenya's cheek. _

_ Just as Blackfyre was free from its sheath, Fingolfin's drawn blade came to rest against Aegon's neck. The metal felt like a block of ice on his skin. _

_ No one dared to even move, and the only sound was the sobbing growls of Visneya, as blood streamed from between her fingers. _

_Then, in that moment, Fingolfin seemed to grow in stature, and strange and frightening light emanating from his flesh, and when he spoke, it was with the voice of a legion. _**"Leave these lands, Aegon Targaryen. Take your sisters and your army and dragons, and never return. If you ignore this edict, then great misfortune and darkness shall be upon thee!"**

* * *

They could have fought, despite the 'High King's' sorcery, but instead, like a coward, Aegon had ordered a retreat, so as to "focus on solidifying our rule over the kingdoms that we already have conquered."

Visenya had never forgotten her little brother's weakness. She knew others had seen it too.

But, they still had dragons, and so the little ants did not rise up.

Then came Dorne, and Rhaenys' downfall.

It had been a shock when the news of Meraxes' fall had arrived. She had looked at her bedroom wall for what felt like hours. Indeed, she had felt as if she was partly to blame... as if she had _wished_ her little sister to die. No one was as accursed as the kinslayer, after all, even by proxy. And Rhaenys, proud, strong, wild and wrathful Rhaenys... they had been through so much together.

But, it had been a dark blessing, perhaps. She had been impetuous, wild. The blood of the dragon had run too hot in her. Dorne could have been negotiated with further, instead of threatening Fire and Blood off the cuff.

And, of course, all those lovers...

Besides, it provided them the excuse to truly raze Dorne to the ground, after all. To burn that kingdom of Desert rats into compliance. Of course, then he had stopped, because of that damned letter.

Weak.

Aegon's death had been the chance she needed. He had become so fucking weak in the end. Not the proud and mighty fool he had been for most of their lives. He had denied Maegor marrying Rhaena, to unite their blood once again; he had refused to see Maegor as the true heir, and instead left the throne to that weakling Aenys. Aenys, with his simpering indecisiveness; over and over and over again, he had stymied and denied her, in favor of weak actions, and weak ideas.

Weak, weak, weak.

But mostly, Visneya wanted revenge upon that cursed nation of elves. And now… now her dream would become a reality.

It had taken only three weeks to raise a grand army from the realm and the other chapters of the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows, save from the Iron Islands and Dorne, though, after this, Visenya would make sure that Maegor directed his wrath to them next. The army had amassed at the borders of the Crownlands and had then marched forward through the Riverlands towards Beleriand, with Vhargar and Balerion flying high overhead.

Then, something happened.

For some reason, neither Belerion nor Vhargar would take to the air past the border, and instead resolutely remained grounded.

Odd, but Visneya still did not feel deterred, and neither did the rest of the Crusade, as they approached closer to the misty border of Beleriand.

Visenya noted that this time, no one emerged from the lone tower to greet them with tea and lemon cake. She would make sure that the tower burned first.

As the army ground to a halt in a clatter of steel, Maegor dismounted from Balerion, then confidently strode forward to the border's edge, and looked into the mist. "I am Maegor Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros, and the head of the first Grand Crusade against the Kingdom of Beleriand!"

At that, the entire army roared and cheered. After a moment, Maegor continued. "To the craven, inhuman rulers of this gods-forsaken nation, and to their cowardly, inhuman king, I hereby demand that you come forth, and answer for the many crimes of black magic that your people have perpetuated upon my realm! Come forth, so that you all maybe be ground to dust beneath the righteous heels of the gods! Come forth, and accept your deaths!"

For a long moment, there was no answer, not even a whisper of wind.

Then, like twenty years ago, a loud and clear horn sounded out through the land from the mist and all who heard it could not help but cower form it, save for Maegor and Visenya.

Then the mists parted, and a large army of elves and atani stood silently as they were revealed, their armor and weapons glinting. Further back, Visenya could even see the outlines of massive figures. Had they been there this entire time?

In the distance, she could see the forms of large figures...

But all eyes were drawn to the front, at the figure who strode forth at the head of that inhuman force.

It was Fingolfin, and, to Visenya's shock, he looked exactly the same, though decades had passed. Not even a single grey hair. Perhaps his claims of being older than her entire line held some credence after all.

He looked over the entire force of knights and faith militant and Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows and soldiers, and all felt cowed before his ageless gaze. Meanwhile, the single jewel in his crown gleamed.

"Once again, a Targaryen arrives with an army to my borders. Only this time, it is an army that reeks of superstitions and foolishness. So, perhaps it is in vain that I can only hope the reason for this intrusion is different from the last time."

He spoke in a tone that one would take with a disobedient child, and his voice seemed to carry all to the back of the army, as his gaze briefly looked upon Visenya. "And, it would also seem my warnings from my last meeting with Targaryens have been ignored. Pathetic, and yet... not unexpected."

Maegor responded by pointing Blackfyre at the High King's head. "Enough of your words. I know that you are sheltering my brother's whore, as well as those bastards who would dare to claim my rightful place on the Iron Throne, elf! Bring them forward, so that I may dispense with them, and secure my throne! Then, you and your house and your people will submit to me! You will surrender your crown and throne, as you so refused to submit to my father twenty years ago! You will also submit to the mercy and justice of the Faith! If you do not, then your nation of demons shall be razed to the ground in fire and blood!"

Fingolfin narrowed his eyes, while behind him, his army of elves and atani stood impassively.

Visenya drummed her fingers upon Dark Sister's ruby pommel, while idly tracing the scar under her eye.

There were times when she still woke sweating with the memory of Fingolfin's disdain, of his sword's edge slashing across her face, and of his words which still thrummed through her mind, all from the fateful day. She hated it, the day Aegon, and thus her, had truly been rebuked and rebuffed and defeated.

She had never forgotten that defeat, and she had ever hungered to humble Beleriand's High King, to see him on his knees before the house of Targaryen, before her, before she took his head, to see his nation razed to ash. So, this time, this time it would be different. She had bred Maegor in her womb with the strength and blood of Belarion and Vhagar alongside the blood of a hundred men, all collected from the many battles over the years. Each battle made him stronger. She had replayed that brief battle with the elvish high king in her mind, over and over again, and had schooled Maegor, her weapon, in great feats of strength and agility, to make him fast and strong.

This time, House Taragaryen would triumph.

This time, the blood of Fingolfin would stain the grass of Beleriand's border.

Fingolfin then shook his head. "No. That will not be happening, incest-spawn."

In lieu of a reply, Maegor dashed forward, Blackfyre's edge glinting in the pale sunlight. Surely, such a blow would cleave the elf in twain!

But without even drawing either of the swords at his side, Fingolfin seemed to weave around the blow. Maegor tried for a reverse cut, but that too was dodged. Maegor was fast for his size, but Fingolfin seemed like a breeze of wind, and he was untouchable. It would have been hilarious, like a mummer's show, if the air around the scene had not been so tense.

The army and Visenya waited with bated breath, none daring to interfere, or move a muscle.

"Stand still and die, damn you!" Maegor bellowed as he began to huff. "Have you no honor as a warrior!? Are you truly such a fucking coward that you will not even draw your sword!?"

This time, the first of Fingolfin's swords rang out from its sheath, and, to Visenya's shock, Fingolfin blocked Maegor's blow with only a single hand gripping his own weapons handle. Visenya recognized it as the blade that had scarred her.

Fingolfin's face was impassive. "Now my sword is drawn, spawn of Aegon. Does that make you feel better?"

"When I kill you, I will burn your fucking fairylands to ash!" Maegor declared as he tried with all his might to push against his opponent's blade.

Despite Maegor's apparent strain, Fingolfin did not even budge an inch.

"Just like a Targaryen, you make empty threats and idle promises that you have no hope of backing up. At least your arrogant father knew when to walk away from a fight that he knew he had no chance of winning."

With a push that seemed almost as gentle as an afterthought, Fingolfin sent Maegor stumbling back, almost off his feet, though Maegor managed to regain his balance.

They then stood there, the two kings, one sweating and grunting and bellowing, the other looking as fresh as he had over four decades ago.

"You are no king, Maegor Targaryen," Fingolfin, seeming to exert no effort in blocking Maegor's flurry of wild slashes, and battered each aside as if he were parting a curtain, and then punctuating each declaration with a cut upon Maegor's face. "A king never seeks out conflict or conquest. He protects, and nurtures, and cares for all his subjects, no matter their station or belief. A king does not terrorize his people on a whim or slaughter innocents. Nor does he force himself upon unwilling women in a vain attempt for an heir that he is not capable of ever hoping to sire. With such a stain upon you, I suppose that in the eyes of your kind, you are not even a real man."

"SHUT UP!"

Maegor roared out a sound, not unlike Balerion's own bellows, his face covered in small and bloody cuts, and then he raised Blackfyre high in one hand and charged forward in a final, barreling dash, his sword swinging down towards Fingolfin like that of an executioner's blade.

Fingolfin did not even seem to move.

Visenya blinked.

Blackfyre went flying, Maegor's hand still gripping the ebony handle. A shower of red littered the ground.

Maegor screamed like a wounded bull as he sank to his knees, clutching the stump of his hand. Black steam billowed forth from between his fingers.

The entire army of the First Crusade watched in silent shock. Visenya's eyes were wide. Even the dragons seemed as if they dared not make a rumble.

A moment later, the icy edge of Fingolfin's blade rested against Maegor's corded and thick neck, the elves' weapon glinting in the dim sunshine. All it would take would be one slight twitch of Fingolfin's hand, and Maegor would bleed out from a slit neck. To his credit, Maegor looked up upon the elven High King with undeniable hatred and vitriol.

Visenya watched the scene with fear and hatred and disbelief. Once again, the damned elf had humiliated her, and her family.

Once again, they had lost. House Targaryen had lost.

She had lost.

Again.

Fingolfin's eyes were as impassive as two grey chips of ice as he looked up to study her. To her shame, she could not meet his gaze. Then, the elven high king turned his gaze back down upon Maegor. He spoke again, and again, his voice carried far though he was not shouting. "Beasts such as you deserve to be put down, and I would be doing your lands a favor… But Ringil has already been soiled enough with your unnatural blood, _abomination_."

He lifted his sword's edge from Maegor's neck. "Now go. Leave these lands, brute, and never return, or next time, I will not hesitate to separate your head from your body. Leave, and know this; You only live this day at my whim, and at the mercy of Beleriand. Flee, and understand that you will not lay a single hand upon the heads of the true Targaryen heirs, nor any of my people. Not you, your sycophants, your zealots, or your witch of a mother."

He then turned towards the army of knights and Poor Fellows and nobles and fools, and it was as if he met the gaze of every last one. Then, he spoke again, and his words were like a mighty storm. Once again, just as he had twenty years ago, the High King of the elves and atani seemed to grow in height, and a terrible radiance began to emanate from his flesh.

When he spoke, every syllable seemed to shake the very ground itself, and all could do not but cry out in fear. "**_All of you, who thought to pillage, rape, and destroy my lands and people under the guise of piety and self-righteousness, hear this! Leave now! Leave my lands, and live the rest of your short, flickering lives with the knowledge that all you know and do will be as dust in the wind before my people, and that it was only at their mercy, and the mercy of the Valar and the One that you all still draw breath! Flee now, or be sent down to the halls of Mandos!"_**

For a long moment after that, even as Fingolfin's form returned to normal, and he and his forces vanished back into the mists, no one dared make a move, or even breath.

Then, like a drop of water on a still pond, someone dropped their sword.

Then another, and another, and another. A cacophony of steel echoed across the land, and it was then followed by all, from the highest of knights to the lowest of peasants, from the Warrior's sons to the Poor Sparrows, as they all turned and fled from the border of Beleriand in a clatter of footsteps and hoofbeats and wagon wheels and screams of terror.

Silently, Visenya collected Maegor and Blackfyre, and then departed upon Vhagar, Balerion following behind them.

The Grand Crusade against Beleriand.

It ended with a severed hand, no deaths, and a field littered with discarded banners and weapons.

* * *

_The Red Keep_

_50 AC_

**The Crone**

Maegor lived for another six years, and every single day of those six years, he grew more paranoid and crueler and madder. The faith militant had retreated to their monasteries and chapterhouses, though he lost all interest in razing that order to the ground, as he had before. Maegor tortured, burned, raped, and murdered. at her suggestion, he had married his niece, but that did little to allay any of the terrors that he inflicted and endured.

He also flinched at each shadow he saw, often waking up screaming in rage and fear, and thought that elves were mounting an invasion of his kingdom, that Fingolfin would kill him. He even took to wearing his armor at all times, even when he forced himself upon women, including Aenys' little tramp of a daughter.

All Visenya could do was watch, and suffer from the knowledge that her weapon against the elves had failed.

At least little Rhaena did not rebel for fear of her daughters.

Amazing how a few strands of hair from a lyseni whore could make a person so compliant, the little fool...

Then, earlier in the evening, she had entered the throne room to find a horrific sight. She, and the few servants and lesser lords of the completed Red Keep, had found Maegor impaled upon spikes of the Iron Throne.

Visenya promptly frightened and threatened the servants and lesser lords into keeping everything quiet after they had helped her slide Maegor's body off the blades, and then she had chased them out, so as to keep it from getting out to the masses.

So, here she was, sat upon the throne that her little brother had forged in dragon fire, wondering where it had all gone wrong, while the product of her womb and knowledge and sacrifice lay dead upon the floor. Who was it that had caused such misfortune in her life? Where had it all gone so wrong?

Oh, that was right.

She remembered now. It all started al Beleriand. That damned nation! It was all their fault! It was all Fingolfin's fault.

She wanted them to burn.

_You want revenge. _

Visenya jerked up, the voice echoing through her mind. Striding towards her was a figure, burning with light and darkness. It made her eyes water, and it was beautiful to look upon. Odd, but it seemed that no one else heard its footsteps.

Without fear, it ascended the stairs towards her, stopping just shy of the throne.

"How could you possibly know what it is that I want?" she asked, as she stood from the throne, and then leveled the point of Dark Sister at the figure's chest.

It cocked its head at the blade as if it were amused by her attempt to threaten it. _There is no point in denying it. The desire for vengeance practically sings and screams from within the confines of your flesh. I understand that desire. I do. This world, this existence, it has not been kind to you. That is something that we share, you and I, and my master. We all saw a grand vision for things, and within us was the wisdom and desire and strength to carry that vision out, to make everything around us _better_. But yet, those who professed to love us, to understand us, who stood at our side… they could not understand. They could not understand our vision, our wisdom, our power. So… they cast us aside like refuse, in favor of those who did not deserve their love, their attention, their faith. _

As the figure spoke, Visenya remembered how often Aegon would spurn her in favor of that little whore, Rhaenys, often taking her ideas and advice over Visenya's. He had not even truly loved Maegor.

Nothing Visenya had ever done had ever seemed to make Aegon truly love her. He had even looked upon her conquest of the Vale with disdain, calling it cowardly.

She clenched the handle of Dark Sister so tightly that her palm started to bleed.

_ You know all that I've said is true. But now, we need no longer be alone, adrift in the melody that rejects us. _

Visenya lowered her blade. "Who… who are you? What are you?"

_As I said, I am one who understands you, as is my master. My name is Mairon, and my master and I want to help you become that which you were truly meant to be, Visenya Targaryen. We can help you became that which you were destined to be. _

The burning figure then stretched out its hand. In its palm, was a simple golden ring.

_You will become the greatest of all. Everything that you see before you will be yours, and all who see you will bow before you in awe and fear. You will be avenged, and, together, we shall bring the realms of man and elf to complete and utter ruin. Then, from the ashes, we all will be able to build something beautiful… something _better._ Then, in this new world, you will truly… be a Queen._

_ All we need you to do… is to take up this ring. _

Visenya looked upon the band of gold, how it gleamed innocuously in the room's torchlight.

Then, she slowly reached out and grasped it.

The metal felt both cold and warm in her hand.

She sheathed Dark Sister, and then, as she set the ring upon her finger, she smiled.

She looked back up at the burning figure, as a new and wonderful feeling began to flood her veins. She actually felt over twenty years younger. "What do we do now?"

_First, we must find our pawns. Every army needs its pawns.…._

* * *

_ The day of King Maegor's death, when he was found dead at the foot of the iron throne, it was as if a collective sigh of relief echoed throughout the entire realm, as if, during the entirety of Maegor's reign, the very land itself had been holding its breath, as one does when hiding from the monsters that dwell in the darkness of one's fears. From the deserts of Dorne, through what was then called the Riverlands, and even to the tops of the mountains of what was then known as the Vale, all rejoiced. Coincidently, his mother, Visenya Targaryen, also disappeared, alongside her dragon, Vhargar, and the sword, Dark Sister... and the corpse of her son. _

_ But, all wondered as to the location of the missing Targaryen heirs, who had remained vanished throughout all those six long, weary years. Among that number even included Queen Rhaena's twin daughters. Though they had been located at one point by Maegor and Tyanna of the Tower, the babes inexplicably vanished en route to King's Landing._

_ A day after Maegor's death, a small group of boats, all as grey as stone, sailed into the docks of King's Landing. _

_ All recognized the flag the ships bore as that of Beleriand, the inscrutable nation of the elves that lay to the north. Never before had so many of the grey ships been seen, nor so far from their homeland. _

_ All the present lords of the Crownlands waited with bated breath as ramps descend from the graceful ships. _

_ From the largest ship came a procession of elves and atani (the term for the strange human residents of the mist-shrouded kingdom) soldiers. At the head of it was Jaehaerys, surviving son of King Aenys, for prince Viserys had suffered greatly under the hands of Maegor and his black bride, Tyana, before then dying. _

_The young king, for he was now king, he was clad in clothing of elvish make, and a simple golden crown rested upon his brow. _

_ The new King was accompanied by the Dowager queen Alyssa, his cousin Alyssane, and a few other figures, all of whom would soon become entrenched greatly into the history of House Targaryen and the Six Kingdoms of Westeros. _

_ At the king's side were three elves, each taller than a tall man, and strong of limb and noble of bearing. On the king's left, this elf was clad in armor and robes as red as his hair, and a stump where his right hand should have been, along with a few scars upon his noble face._

_The elf on the king's right seemed the brother of the warrior, though was clad in the robes and garments of a noble, and his hair was dark as midnight. _

_The final elf was fair in hair and appearance and bore with him an aura of great and kindly wisdom. _

_Russandol the Red, Maglor, and Celeborn the Wise._

_The Protector, the Minstrel, and the Hand..._

_Meanwhile, accompanying little princess Alyssane, as well as Rhaena's missing daughters, was an elven lady of breathtaking beauty..._

_Little did any know that after this, nothing in Westeros would ever by the same. _

_From the Writings of Archmaester Gyldayn._

_Fire, Blood, Tears, and Wrath; the Entertwined history of House Targaryen, Beleriand, and the Six Kingdoms._

* * *

** A/N: Hope you all enjoyed this. As you can tell, Fingolfin does not play around. Made a few changes to the earlier chapter, mainly a detail about the War of Ice and Fire, and a small detail about the gem in Fingolfin's crown.**

** Also, a few tidbits about this timeline. Here, Maegor never had a trial of the seven, and instead simply burned the Sept of Remembrance, though many Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows escaped. **

** After his defeat at the hands of Fingolfin, the area before Beleriand's border became known as the Field of Fallen Weapons.**

**Things will be a bit different, and a bit similar, in Westeros's history after the Conquest, and after Aegon's Failure. Also, as a side note, Maehdros, Maglor, and Celeborn are not the only named elves from the Simarillion that accompany Jaehaerys. As a hint, one of the others is known as "The White Lady."**

** Yes, Gandalf will be in this story. It would not be a story with Tolkien elements without Gandalf the Grey. Thus, there will be other Istari, but Gandalf will be the only one from the canon. As a clue, these are a few of the colors…**

** The Green.**

** The Brown.**

** The White.**

** The Red.**

**Make your guesses, and be sure to read, review, enjoy, and remember...**

**Not all who wander are lost.**

**A/N/N: I have made some alterations. Rhaena was still married to Maegor in this story. **

**A/N/N/N: I have made Alyssane Maegor's daughter, and made Visenya into a three-dimensional character. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2. The Reign of Jaehaerys Elf-Friend: The Trial of Seven-And-One

_The Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast, 50 AC_

**The Elf-Friend**

From within the royal apartments, Jae looked out a window that allowed one to look down upon where the Great Hall was located. It was odd, but though he could not see it, Jae could feel the Hall's one true occupant, waiting.

It had been a flurry of activity, these past several days since he and his family had returned from Beleriand after Maegor's death. During that time, he had reached his majority and had been crowned king the day after his return, though the ceremony had been short and private. After that, he had holed himself up in the Red Keep. No court had been held, and no public edicts had been issued to the realm.

Today, though, he would have to face his subjects for the first time.

It was something that he had never expected, nor wanted, even as he had spent the last six years preparing for it.

"Is there something troubling you, your highness?" came a voice from behind him.

Jae turned to behold the speaker; a tall, blonde elf dressed in a simple gold and white robes.

Celeborn, lord of Lothlorien, and the husband of the Lady Galadriel.

During Jae and his family's six years in Beleriand, he remembered his time in the forests of Lothlorien most fondly, for the Lady Galadriel and her husband had taught him and his sister much, and they had been very kind. He had been most glad when Fingolfin had allowed the Elf-lord to accompany Jae as his Hand.

Jae looked upon the elf and sighed. "At times, I think that I have to but blink, and then I'll wake up in my bed, and all the past years will have been but a strange and feverish dream."

He looked up at his chosen Hand. "Why am I here, Celeborn? Why have the Fates seemingly conspired to force upon me a position that I never once wanted or desired or even earned, save for being the last man standing, as it were?"

Celeborn nodded in understanding. "You feel that you are unworthy of this station, of kingship?"

Jae shrugged. "I am but a third son. Third in line, third in importance. In what sane world would the third son become king? Third princes are not raised to be kings, just as third sons are not truly raised to be lords. We're not even really raised to be spares. At best, we are but spares of spares. Barely acknowledged, hardly thought of, and mostly ignored."

He took a deep breath. "How am I, a third son, supposed to be a king of anything, let alone Six Kingdoms? More to the point, how am I supposed to be the king in a realm that suffered under my uncle for so long?"

Celeborn knelt before Jae and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "None of us, be we man or elf, ever truly have a say in our own destiny, Jaehaerys. Eru has a plan for all of us, and it does us no good to worry about what that plan might be. The best you can do, the best that any of us can do, is simply to live, learn, grow, and try to spread a little more light in the world around them. But, in the end, you, and you alone, must make that decision. No one else."

Jae mulled over Celeborn's words, and then slowly nodded. "Thank you, my Hand, my friend."

Behind them, the door opened, and in stepped the elf who would be Jae's protector.

Russandol was taller than most elves, and he was clad in supple and red leathers and chain and plate that seemed as weightless as leaves and made no sound of rattling. Emblazoned upon his chest plate was a simple white star. "The men are ready, my king. Shall we depart for the Throne Room?" he asked, his scars shining in the pale morning light.

Jae swallowed, and then nodded. "We shall."

Head held high, he and Celeborn exited the room. Behind them walked three rows of twenty elven and atani warriors, all treading silently.

Not a word was spoken as they traversed through the halls. Eventually, they entered the throne room, already filled with throngs of waiting Lords and Ladies of the Court.

The room was filled with many courtiers and Nobles from all over the realm. Jae even recognized Rogar Baratheon, though his black hair seemed to have lost a bit of luster over the past six years.

The Lord of the Stormlands eyed the elves and atani accompanying Jae with suspicion.

Jae looked upon the monstrosity of twisted swords and edges and spikes that sat in the far-middle end of the throne room. He had only seen it a few times, and each time, it seemed to grow.

As a little child, it had been terrifying. Now, it was still fearsome, and it seemed like a crouching beast waiting to devour all dared to approach it. Sword blades spread out like the fiery wings of a balrog from one of Maglor's songs.

A part of Jae did not even want to approach it at all. Another part thought that his grandfather had been insane or drunk to have had the blasted thing forged in the first place.

Still, before the eyes of all, he marched forward, his elven-and-atani guard following silent behind him as he ascended the steps, ever closer to the monster of a throne. As he sat upon it, he suddenly realized that, in addition to looking like a nightmare incarnate, the throne was also fucking uncomfortable.

Celeborn took his place at the top stair before the throne, while Russandol and the others took their place at the foot of the dais. At the silence, Jaehaerys then spoke. "I greet you all, my Royal Court. As many of you might have surmised, for the past six years, my mother, sister, and I have been protected from my uncle's wrath by the elves of Beleriand. For six years, I was protected by the grace of High King Fingolfin. But now, I have returned to you, my people. This nation has suffered much under the reign of Maegor, and I bring with me the swift hand of justice and relief. But first…"

Jae paused for a moment, and briefly looked towards Celeborn for support. A minute nod of the elf-lord's head was all he needed. "Every King needs at his side a Hand. A person who will be unafraid to speak for his king, to dispense wise and good advice… to speak plainly when the king acts against the good of his subjects. Without a Hand, a King cannot truly rule wisely if there is none to offer a differing opinion."

He gestured to Celeborn. "As such, I present to this royal court, my chosen Hand of the King… Lord Celeborn the Wise, from the nation of Beleriand."

As a quiet murmur of shock echoed through the hallway, Jae continued. "Now, for the more pressing matters at hand. Lord Celeborn, you may begin."

Celeborn nodded and then spoke in a loud, clear, and resonating voice. "This trial shall now be called to session, so that His Royal Highness, Jaehaerys I, and his peers may pass judgment and sentence upon the accused. The accused, the Kingsguard of Maegor the Monstrous, shall be brought forth, alongside the Chief Galors of the Black Cells, the Commander of the City Watch, the King's justice, the Lord Confessor, and Lady Tyanna of Pentos."

One by one, the knights, galoers, torturers, watchmen, and Maegor's Black Bride were led into the throne room, chains about their wrists and ankles. The knights were the first to be brought before the court.

Jae looked upon the so-called knights. It was amazing how small such men could look, without their armor and arms, and dressed only in rags. They were Davos Darklyn, Owen Bush, Maladon Moore, Jon Tollet, Symond Crayne, Harrold Longward, Olyver Bracken, and Raymund Mallery. Some had served his father and then had served his uncle. These knights had helped in Maegor's murders, had fought in the Battle Over God's eye. A few had even participated in the torture of Viserys, alongside Tyanna.

For more than six years, these knights had done nothing, as Maegor had committed atrocity after atrocity. They were knights, sworn to protect the innocent… and they had done nothing. They claimed that they had no choice, that they had been bound by their oaths of fealty, that Maegor and Visenya had been too powerful to be stopped. He was the king, they said, and one could not disobey the king, after all.

Jae looked upon them all, listening to their reasonings and excuses. "When I was but a babe in swaddling clothes, my nurse, my mother and father used to tell me stories about knights, like Florian the Fool, Galladon of Morne, and Serwyn of the Mirror."

All in court looked upon him in confusion, but Jae continued. "Now, I am not naive. I know that knights are meant to obey their lords. However, I was also taught that knights were meant to protect the innocent, to champion justice, and to challenge tyranny and injustice. I look upon you, and I see none of those ideals personified. All I see are just cowardly thugs who supported a tyrant without a word. You even partook in some of his atrocities. You fought against my brother Aegon, who should have been your rightful king. All of you were even ready to sack and destroy Beleriand alongside the Faith Militant. Through your actions, you have all spat upon what it means to be knights, to be defenders of the realm and the land."

Jae paused for a moment. No weakness. "For your crimes, and for your failure to stand in the face of tyranny, you are all hereby stripped of your knighthoods, and given the choice between death or exile from the kingdom of Westeros. Additionally, the order of the Kingsguard is hereby disbanded."

The royal court all gasped, as Jae continued. "While I will still employ knights as Royal guardians, there will be no more Kingsguard. That shall be the first of many changes I will be implementing across this kingdom."

All looked upon him in confusion, as did many of the other nobles, and even the former Kingsguard. Then, Lord Rogar Baratheon spoke up. "But… who shall truly defend you, your highness? Who shall protect you and the royal family? Who will be your champions, your defenders, your lords of the battlefield?"

Jae gestured towards Russ. "Lord Russandol shall be my and my family's protector, as will the elves and atani that are here with me. He shall be the leader of the Royal Guardians. However, positions will be open to Westerosi knights as well. But there will be no more white cloaks, and no oaths that they will spit upon at the drop of a copper coin, or the loosening of a women's bodice."

As the court processed this, Ser Longward snorted as he looked upon Russandol's wrist stump. "Is this some sort of a sick jape? You would have a cripple defend you, whilst you send good men like me and others to exile or death!?"

Jae leveled an even gaze at the former Kingsguard. "I would choose Russandol here over a hundred like you and your 'sworn brothers', Longward because unlike you, he did not help perpetuate the reign of tyrants. I would trust him with my life. I cannot ever hope to say the same about any of you, _Ser._"

Longward's face twisted into a hateful thing. "If that is the case, _boy_, then I will not go quietly to my death, or be banished across the Narrow sea. Westeros is my home, and it will be upon its land that I shall live and die. As such, I demand a trial by combat!"

Another murmur rippled through the crowd. Jae met the knight's glare with his own, and opened his mouth to reply…

Then, suddenly, one of the Faith Militant in attendance, a wild-eyed man dressed in armor and a cloak that were colored seven different shades, spoke up. "Indeed, and he shall not fight alone!"

All turned towards the Warrior's son in surprise and confusion, even several of his compatriots. Longward most definitely looked surprised. Unperturbed, the man strode forth, ignoring High Captain Morrigen's attempts to quiet him down. "Am I the only one whose eyes remain unclouded within this gathering of nobles and Faithful alike? Can no one else see that our court has now been infested with demons from that unholy nation that is Beleriand!?"

He drew his sword, and pointed it at Jae, though Russandol was quick to step before the king. "This young king, he has been bewitched by these godless elves! As such, it is up to the true protectors of the faith to expel this unholy presence from our lands, to defend ourselves against their foul and unholy taint! So, I, Garibald of the Seven Stars, and by our authority as Warrior's Sons of the Faith Militant, hereby declare this trial by combat be a trial of the Seven! Let my brothers and I fight alongside the condemned Ser Longward for the very soul of this kingdom, under the eyes of the Seven-Who-are-One!"

There was dead silence at that proclamation, before five more slowly accompanied the knight-septon where he stood alongside Longward.

Russandol looked upon the assembled Knights of the Faith with a heavy and serene disdain, such that all felt it in the room, and all felt the desire to run far and never look back, much like what had occurred at the Field of Discarded Weapons.

All then looked towards Jae.

This… was unexpected, to say the least. But he had to show no weakness.

"Very well," he said. "You shall have your trial of the Seven, Ser Garibald. Tomorrow, on the tourney fields."

The rest of the sentencing passed in a blur, with the remaining accused, including the Lady Tyanna, sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead.

As for those Lords who had supported Maegor outright? Jae had debated that they be executed or exiled. Yet, Celeborn had advised mercy. So, he had come up with a compromise before the trial; they were spared, with the stipulation that hostages would be provided from their children so as to ensure their continued allegiance.

* * *

The next day, the court, nobles, and small folk of all gathered at the tourney ground. It was a clear day, the sun shined brightly, and the grass seemed as green as emeralds.

Upon the main dais was seated the royal family. Further down upon the left side of the field, Russandol was preparing himself.

As Jae approached him, he noted Russ strapping a strange-looking gauntlet to his arm. It ended in a smooth dome for his missing hand, and out from it jutted a curved blade that gleamed in the sunlight and arced towards his elbow, like an ax-blade.

The elf looked up from his ministrations as Jae approached. "Your Grace."

"Russ. Do you feel prepared for this?"

"Indeed, I do. Do not trouble yourself with worry, your Grace. I have no intention of falling upon the swords of zealots this day."

Jae looked out upon the prepared field for the trial by seven. "I wanted to fight in this myself, by your side, as a king should. However, Lord Celeborn strongly advised that it would not be wise, and my mother agreed."

Russandol nodded. "That is indeed a most wise course of action, your Grace."

Jae nodded. "But, since you will be fighting for my royal self and on behalf of the royal family and this nation, then the very least that I can do is to allow you to fight with the royal weapon."

As he said this, he presented Blackfyre to the elven warrior.

With a raised brow of curiosity, Russandol wrapped his fingers around the blade's dragon bone hilt, and slowly withdrew the weapon from the ebony sheath, holding it easily in his single hand. The blade itself, grey-and-black with strange and rippling patterns, seemed to reflect no light as Russ held it aloft.

Jae watched as his champion and protector stepped back and gave the ancient sword a few expert swings and twirls and examinations. Though he had never before held the blade, in Russ' hands, it seemed as if the elf had been born with it.

Russ nodded. "A very fine blade indeed. I thank you for this honor, your grace."

He then looked over at the other side of the field, towards his opponents, where the stood girt and armed. "Shall I make this quick, or make it last?"

Jae looked at Russ' opponents. Six Warrior's Sons, and one of the men who had helped to perpetuate his uncle's reign of terror. He remembered learning how the Faith had called for the deaths of his brother and sister and father, and of their siege of King's Landing before Maegor had driven them off. He then looked back at the elf. Though, he also did remember how they had been some of the few willing to stand against Maegor, with many even fighting alongside Aegon when he had died. "I shall leave that to your discretion, Russ."

Russ did not miss the look in Jae's eyes. "Quick it shall be, then."

With a final nod, Russ strode out onto the field, his amour making not a single sound as he and his opponent strode towards the center of the field.

Joffrey Doggett raised a red brow at Russandol's solitary appearance as he approached. "Does our opponent not have any that wish to fight with him?" he called out to the assembled nobles and commoners. "The Seven do espouse fairness in all things, even combat against godless heathens and monsters. We are willing to wait until six more join you, elf. Tradition demands that there be an equal chance on both sides, after all."

Russandol's scarred eyes narrowed. "I require none to assist me in this, though I thank you for your attempt at chivalry. Besides, I do not hold to your Seven, only to the Fourteen and the One above All. Besides if you had truly wanted this to be an even bout… you would have brought more warriors for your side."

It was not a boast, that declaration. From Russ' lips, it sounded little more than the stating of a simple fact.

Still, Longward smirked, even as a drop of sweat dripped down his face. "Such arrogance. Perhaps I and my new comrades shall go down in history as the first men to ever kill an elf."

Russ said nothing, and simply gave Blackfyre one more swing, the sword cutting through the air with a keening _whoosh_.

As they stood, the High Septon waddled out onto the field. "May the Seven looked down upon this combat with fairness and justice, and may those truly in the right prevail!"

It did not escape Jae's notice that the man looked disdainfully upon Russ as he said this.

All then looked to the king as the High Septon waddled back of the field.

Time to proceed. "Begin!" Jae declared.

As one, the seven knights readied their weapons, drawing them forth in a collective _hiss _from the sheaths and belts at their waists.

Russ held Blackfyre lightly before him, in a light and ready stance.

A slight breeze wafted through the field.

The nobles all leaned forward eagerly, had come to watch a show, to be entertained.

Longward was the first to raise his sword and rushed forward. For a man of his greying years, he was still quite spry. It was a brave act, perhaps.

Brave, but foolish.

Russ did not even seem to move.

Then, everyone blinked. Longward's sword was on the ground, and his throat was slit, his tabard now stained a deep red.

Everyone watched as he fell to his knees, grasped at his throat, gurgled, choked, and then collapsed dead at Russandol's feet.

No one dared to breathe.

Russ then nonchalantly stepped over the still corpse of the former knight towards the remaining six.

Those six remaining knights started to move cautiously, attempting to surround him. It was perhaps a sound strategy.

Against anyone else, it may have even been a successful one.

In a heartbeat, Russ was a blur of motion as he suddenly dashed forward towards the four closest.

Everyone blinked, and then Blackfyre was impaled through the chest of Dickon Flowers. Russ turned and buried the razor-edge of his arm-blade into the side of Harys Horpe's head with a wet and meaty _squelch. _In the next breath, he wrenched out his arm-blade, pivoted, ducked under Lyle Bracken's cut, withdrew Blackfyre from Flowers' still-standing corpse, and severed Bracken's sword hand, before then following it up with a gruesome cut into Bracken's face, and then parrying Horys Hill's ax blow, followed by a thorough impalement of Blackfyre through Hill's shield and mouth, the Valyrian steel sliding through the Warrior Son's helmet and shield like a hot knife through warm butter.

With a wet, metallic hiss, Russ quickly withdrew Blackfyre from the hole in the dead man's bascinet helmet and skull.

In the next breath, four more corpses fell to the ground with wet and heavy thuds, alongside the gasps of the crowd.

Only two were left then. Joffrey Doggett and Garibald of the Seven Stars.

Russandol the Red stood patiently with arms held slightly wide, as if inviting, if not daring, the remaining two to come forward. His armor was lightly splattered with blood.

Jae leaned forward in his seat, as did everyone else, it seemed.

A small breeze wafted through the area as Russandol slowly exhaled.

"For the Seven!" Garibald screamed, spittle flying from his beaded mouth as he and Dogget bull-rushed Russandol, with the Red Dog in the lead.

Russandol ducked under Dogget's wide slash, and then cut upwards and left with Blackfyre's edge, slashing it against Doggett's cheek before then sending him staggering back and away with a swift and light kick.

Russandol pivoted to the left, and Blackfyre's edge arced up to meet Garibald's slashing blade.

_Clang _and Garbiald's charge was arrested.

_Clang_ and Garibald took seven steps backward, hounded by Russandol.

_Clang, clang, clang, clang!_

Then, Garibald brought up his sword to parry Russandol's seventh blow.

Russ's arm seemed to blur, like scorpion's tail as it struck its prey, held between its claws.

_Clang-crack-ssshunk!_

Garibald's sword was shattered, before his head then followed the trajectory of the shards in a spray of crimson, as his headless corpse crumpled downwards before Russandol. Near the edge of the field, Garibald's head rolled to a halt, the expression on his face forever one of surprise and fear.

Russ then pivoted and set Blackfyre against Doggett's neck, before the Red Dog could attempt to sneak up on the elf.

Russ then exhaled again, the scars upon his face shining in the noonday sun.

Where once the field had been a gentle green, now it seemed that everywhere was stained with drying blood and viscera.

Amid the carnage, Russandol stood serene, Blackfyre's point resting upon Doggett's throat.

Though the Red Dog of the Hills was shaking, he still held onto his sword, and still met Russandol's piercing stare firmly.

Still, no one dared to breathe.

All the while, the blood from the cut upon Dogget's face dripped down upon the black blade.

Then, Russ spoke, and his voice seemed carried clear and strong by the wind itself. "Your six fellows are dead, Joffrey Doggett. Only you remain. However, I shall deign to offer you mercy, Ser Doggett, since you were the only one who even made an attempt to make this farce 'fair.' As such, I shall attempt to return that kindness."

He then tilted his head. "Though, will you be prudent enough to accept it, I wonder?"

The Red Dog's eyes glanced about. He looked upon the slaughtered body of Longward and the bodies of his fellow Warrior's Sons. He looked upon the lightless blade of Blackfyre. He looked upon Russandol's impassive face.

Doggett's eyes narrowed, as blood continued to pour down his face. "It is the duty of the Warrior's Sons to be brave, even in the face of overwhelming odds, when fighting enemies of the Faith and the Seven-Who-Are-One."

Upon saying that, he then dropped his blade to the ground, and, to the surprise of all, knelt before Russ, his chainmail lightly clinking. "But I am also a knight, and part of being brave, of being a knight… is knowing when you are outmatched. You have won, Ser Russandol. Indeed, you fight like the very Warrior Himself. I am outmatched. Deal with me as you see fit, for I will not resist."

The crowd held its breath, and Jae found himself holding it alongside them. All watched as Russandol seemed to examine the kneeling Knight.

Russ's arm descended, and Blackfyre was plunged into the soft earth.

Then, the elf held out his hand towards the kneeling man. "Understanding when one is defeated is wisdom rarely seen in most warriors. It would be a crime to sever that wisdom from the land here and now. Rise, Ser Doggett. You have done yourself proud today, and I would not see you debased any longer."

As the stunned man accepted the elf's hand, Russandol then looked towards Jae. "This man shows promise, your Grace. With your royal permission, I would like to formally induct him into the Royal Guardians. I believe he would make a fine one indeed."

Jae felt surprised by that turn of events but felt he could not refuse his protector's request. "And my permission is granted! Ser Doggett, do you accept?"

All turned to the Red Dog of the Hills.

Tears slowly streamed down his cut face, and he nodded.

* * *

**The Storm Lord**

His mind abuzz from the event that he had just witnessed, Rogar sought out the king as the field emptied, the air filled with conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, Rogar noticed several young peasants reenacting the trial, with all clambering to be the tall elf.

He later found the king, talking with the tall elf who had single-handedly decimated those seven trained knights. Sheathed at the elf's waist was now Blackfyre, as well as the strange bladed gauntlet.

At his approach, the tall elf calmly proceeded to step between Rogar and the king, the unspoken message clear.

Rogar, though by no means a short man, at most only reached the middle of the elf's lower chest, though he did seem to outweigh the elf by at least a few stones worth of muscle. The elf peered down upon Rogar with piercing grey eyes, both of which were framed by long red hair and a small plethora of vicious-looking scars over his eyes, across his cheeks, and even one through his lips. Oddly enough, the scars did not seem completely disfiguring.

To his credit, Rogar did not back down.

Still, Jaehaerys gestured for his protector to let him pass. "Lord Rogar."

Lord Baratheon bowed. "Your Highness."

As the Lord Paramount opened his mouth to continue, Jaehaerys raised a hand. "Before you say anything, I want you to know that you have my thanks, Lord Rogar. I am thankful and indebted for all you have done."

The Storm Lord felt puzzled at that statement. "Thankful? Whatever for?"

"For how you helped my family," Jae explained. "Walk with me? The Small Council awaits."

As their respective guards followed behind them, Jaehaerys continued. "Lord Farman and You each respectively sheltered my sister and sent her children away to whre Fingolfin's agents were able to save them, all the while knowing what the consequences of such acts would potentially be. Even if my sister had to suffer from the Monster's cruel grasp, in the end, you stood firm. Still, perhaps it was lucky for you and Lord Farman that Maegor grew too paranoid and maddened to really do anything before he died."

Jae then smiled. "And, through it all, you and others managed to remain loyal to my family through those long and dark years, and such loyalty deserves a reward. As such, I would name you Lord Justiciar."

As he said this, and Rogar disbelievingly spluttered out his thanks, they entered into the chamber of the Small Council. It was a much less ostentatious room that housed the Iron Throne. It consisted only of a few braziers, a hearth, and a rectangular table at which the council could convene.

At the table, Rogar recognized Albin Massey with his twisted spine, and the Valyrian visage of Damon Velaryon, who kept his silver hair bound back in an oddly-long braid. There was also a master seated whom Rogar recognized as Benifer, the only one of Maegor's old council who had escaped the monster's blade of execution. Edwell Celtigar, the master of coin, had been politely let go by the King two days after his arrival, much to the relief, due to the man's ill-favored taxations.

Seated across from them was another elf, this one garbed in robes and leathers of soft blue and black, with hair as ebony as midnight. He seemed to hold a familial resemblance to Russandol (who was currently standing guard outside the room), and yet to Rogar's eyes, he seemed to carry an air of sadness about him. Resting by his side was an elegantly-crafted harp.

Jaahaerys took his seat at the head of the table. "My Lords. Thank you for accepting my invitations to this council, especially on such rather short notice from my return to Westeros. You honor me with your presence here."

"There is no need to thank us, your grace," Massey said, with a nod of his head. "Indeed, it is we who feel honored that you have seen fit to elevate us to these lofty positions."

Jaehaerys seemed pleased by what Massey said. "Perhaps, but the honor is mine nonetheless. Now, before we begin, I shall like to introduce you to our new members, though I am sure many of you already recognize Archmaester Benifer..."

The Archmaester inclined his wizen head. "My Lords. Your Grace."

Jaehaerys Gestured to Rogar and Lord Celeborn. "You also already know Lord Rogar Baratheon, who shall serve as the new Lord Justiciar."

Rogar, in turn, bowed his head as he took his seat at the left of the king.

"Next, as you are all aware, here is my New Hand. Lord Celeborn. Listen to him as you would me, and I am sure that his wise counsel shall serve us well in the endeavors of this Council."

The elf graced everyone with a nod. "My Lords."

Though Massey and Celtigar looked upon the elf-lord with cool neutrality, Rogar could not help but notice the slight trepidation in Velaryon's eyes at the sight of the elves in the room.

Then, Jaehaerys gestured towards the ebony-haired elf. "Finally, this is Lord Maglor, son of Feanor, brother of Lord-Commander Russandol, and the Small Council's new Master of Whispers."

The named Maglor inclined his head. "I thank you for this Honor, your Grace. I shall serve you to the best of my ability," he said, in a voice that seemed the offspring of a whisper and sorrowful melancholy.

"Now then," Jaehaerys said, as he steepled his fingers. "Let us begin to heal this nation of the wounds and ills dealt to it by Maegor."

He looked towards Celeborn. "Lord Celeborn? Shall we begin?"

The Elf-Lord nodded, and he unrolled the first of many scrolls that littered the table. "Indeed, Your Grace. We shall begin with the Faith Militant..."

* * *

_The Famed "Trial of Seven and One," would be discussed in hushed and awed tones for years to come, adding to the legend of Russandol the Red, the Lord-Commander of the Royal Guardians. _

_The Reign of Jaehaerys I, Elf-Friend, would, in time, be looked back upon as some of the greatest decades of prosperity that Six Kingdoms and House Targaryen would ever know. It would be a Golden Age, and it would be filled with many wondrous and terrible events, such as the Treaty of Kingdoms, the Wedding of Golden Stars, the Tourney of Ashcrown, the Voyage to Valyria, and many others. It would be a reign upon which Legends would be forged, perhaps outshining even the reign of Jaehaerys' mighty Grandfather, whose own mighty reputation would still be slightly weighed down by Fingolfin's Famed Rebuke of the Dragons. _

_However, to the more cynical, the Elf-Friend's reign would also be referred to as "The Calm Before the Storm..." and, indeed, what would follow after would be some of the darkest times in the history of Westeros... if not the entire World..._

_From the Writings of Archmaester Gyldayn._

_Fire, Blood, Tears, and Wrath; the Entertwined history of House Targaryen, Beleriand, and the Six Kingdoms._

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As you can see several things in canon have been changed, whilst some have remained the same. This story will have no Kingsguard, but the Royal Guardians. Similar in some ways, yes, but also different in others.**

**For instance, Maegor never actually married anyone after Ceryse Hightower save for Tyanna. Tyanna was his only Black Bride, though he did kidnap, rape, and try to impregnate several other women, both highborn and base. Nothing human or alive ever came of these couplings, and many of the women were never heard from again. (I have changed the story a bit. He did 'marry' Rhaena).**

**Second, as there is no Wall, there is no option to take the Black, thus, a Lord or criminal is faced with three options: Disfigurement, exile, or Death. **

**Third, Jaehaerys and Alyssane will still have dragons, though, for a bit, they were left on Dragonstone, as no Dragon will want to fly over into Beleriand, for reasons that will be revealed much later. **

**As for the Trial of Seven-And-One? True, zealous, and mad devotion to one's Faith cannot stand in the face of the twelve thousand years that Russandol had to hone his skills. **

**Also, as a small side note... here, there are no old gods and no Weirwoods. The Children and the First Men worshipped a different set of deities. Most prevalent was their worship of the Hunter, The Queen of Flowers, and the Swift Lady, among others. If you can guess who these figures are that the Children and First Men Worshipped, then congratulations.**

**(Another note: There will be Weirwoods.)**

**Again, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, and be sure to read, follow, like, and review.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3. The Voyage to Valyria: Beginnings and Meetings

_49 AC, The Riverlands_

**The Wanderer**

The fire crackled and spat embers.

He had gotten used to sleeping on the ground. At times, he preferred it to sleeping in a feather bed. On a soft mattress, one's guard could not help but be eroded by the comfort it dropped upon you, letting one drift away.

Ever since Essos and the God's Eye, that had terrified him, letting his guard down.

But the firm ground, with its inherent unevenness, its coarseness, and its lack of comfort? It forced you to remain at least half-way vigilant so that nothing could sneak up on you.

Add that, and a warm fire and night, and the wanderer was content.

He looked up.

The sky, there were just so many stars, like tiny diamonds, glittering in a sable cloak

He closed his eyes and laid his head upon his bedroll.

He was content.

Then, at the snap of a twig, his eyes shot open, and he burst to his feet, a hand on his sword.

As he did, a small voice then carried forth. "Now, now, young man. No need for violence."

He was not convinced. "Step into the firelight… slowly."

"Heh, heh, heh. Very well, young man."

Slow, shuffling footsteps carried the voice's owner into sight.

The woman was… she was very short. Tiny, in fact, with her head barely reaching his lower thigh. Her wrinkled skin was white as bone, it was almost translucent. Her tiny eyes were like two pale red grapes. She grasped in her tiny, claw-like hands a staff of pure black wood. Her white hair was so long, it almost dragged upon the ground. She was clad in white robes that seemed oddly pristine.

She smiled at him with a mouth full of crooked and stained teeth, as she drew near to his little camp. "As you can see, I am quite harmless. Just an old lady, seeking some warmth by an available fire. Nothing more, dearie, nothing more."

Though he drew his hand away from his sword, he still remained tense and vigilant as the woman crept closer.

She looked at him, as his still tense stance, and scoffed in derision. "… Do I honestly look like someone who can take down such a young, strapping, virile man as yourself, ser?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Though for all I know, you could be waiting until I fall asleep, and then you'll just slit my throat."

The woman shrugged in turn. "Perhaps. But I think I have already reached my throat-slitting quota for the year."

At that, he tilted his head in acknowledgment, and then sat down, as the tiny creature slowly reached out her tiny and gnarled hands towards the fire, as she too sat down, her staff resting across her legs.

Things were silent, save for the crackle of the fire.

She then cleared her throat. "Have anything one can slake their thirst on?"

Wordlessly, he handed her one of his flasks. With a grunt of thanks, she took it in both of her tiny hands and took a messy swig. She made a grimace. "Water, eh? I would have preferred a taste of the red. Have you got any of the red or even the gold?"

He looked at her. "…I don't have a taste for spirits."

She shrugged at that. "Ach… no accounting for taste, I suppose."

She then took another swig.

The fire crackled.

"So, what is your name, young man?" the dwarf asked, as she wiped at her mouth and handed him back the flask.

"…Call me Ren."

"Is that it?"

"…No."

"Will you tell me the rest, then?"

"No."

She stroked her chin and then shrugged. "Hmmm. Ren. A nice little nickname, for a young man."

The fire crackled and spat.

"And you?" he asked.

The woman cackled. "Me? I'm too old to still have a name, dearie. You could say I outlived it. I'm just an old ghost who has not yet died."

"Indeed." He wiped at the head of the flask, and then took a drink himself. "So, Ghost then?"

She chuckled again. "If you wish. I suppose that is as good a name as any."

The fire crackled.

"So, where would you be going, young man?"

"… I have no destination in mind."

She let loose a bark of laughter. "Ah-ha! A wanderer! Now there is a most rare breed. There are not many who have the fortitude to travel without end nor destination."

She then adopted a thoughtful look on her face. "Though, it does also mean that they do not feel happy enough anywhere to stay, perhaps?

He did not respond to that.

The fire crackled.

She stretched. "A most fine conversationalist you are, dearie. Anyway, though you may not be heading anywhere, I for one am heading towards Seagard. Could I trouble you to perhaps escort me there? With such a strapping young fellow like yourself by my side, none would be sure to trouble me. None, and especially when they see that sword you carry."

He did not respond verbally to that. But he nodded.

It was like she said; he had nowhere in particular to go.

Besides, at times, it was better to travel in company than it was to travel alone, as Strider, though stalwart and dependable, did not make for good conversation, in those moments when the Wanderer felt the need to speak aloud.

The conversation halted after that, and, soon enough, both drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next day, they got up early and were already on their way when the sun started to rise. Since he had deigned his new companion to ride upon Strider, he was walking, guiding Strider along by the reigns.

Like most days in the Riverlands, it was overcast and damp. So damp that it seemed to seep into one's bones.

But he walked, and he walked without complaint.

They stopped for brief moments intermittently feasting traveling food or relieving themselves. Then, off they would be once again, with him walking, and Ghost riding upon Strider.

"I must say, this is all very chivalrous of you, young Ren. Not many in these lands looking to be so kind to one such as me."

Ren simply grunted.

Ghost _tut-tutted. _"You know, it would not kill you to hold a conversation with me that's longer than a sentence or two."

Strider knickered, and Ghost stroked the stallion's neck. "See, even your fine steed agrees with me."

Ren rolled his eyes, and he kept walking.

At night, they rested, and in the day, he walked. Every day, it was damp, and at night, it was damp. Damp, damp, damp.

As the sun rose on the third day, and they kept walking through the damp, Ren suddenly came to a stop. As Strider followed suit, Ghost, who had been dozing in the saddle, jerked awake, nearly falling over. "What the bloody hell!? Why have we stopped?"

She then looked up, and her complaints died upon her lips.

The God's Eye.

More than ten years later, and he could still see the damage from that 'battle.' Bare and untouched was the great skeleton of the dragon Quicksilver, the black bones now picked dry by scavengers both winged and dirt-bound.

Mostly untouched, as he noted several pieces were missing.

Ghost looked upon the field and took a loud swig of water.

"You fought in this battle, then?" she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, and she grunted. "Your solemn silence at this goes beyond simple decorum, young Ren. You were one of the survivors of the Uncrowned's army, yes? You survived the battle with Maegor the Monstrous."

Ren shook his head. "It was no battle. In a battle, both sides have at least a chance of winning. We didn't. It was a slaughter, not a battle. We were dead from the moment it began."

Ghost _hmmed_ at that. "Well, at least you fought for a just cause. I know that not many can boast about that."

Ren shrugged. "That is scant comfort to all those in Aegon's army who died here. Do you really think that Aegon, in his last thoughts, was pleased that he had died for a just cause?"

He spat to the side. "He was a fool, and his actions had gotten thousands killed."

He clenched his fist.

"He was a fool, and he paid the price for his foolishness."

The scars ached.

Ghost chuckled. "A man as young as you should not be so cynical. It's bad for your health."

"So is a sword to the back and dragon fire. I survived those."

He started to walk forward. "We never should have fought."

Ghost stroked her chin. "You know…I heard a phrase from an old friend once; all it takes for evil to prosper is if good men do not take a stand."

"Aegon died when he took a stand," he whispered. "They all died."

"Aye… but he and they still took a stand none-the-less."

He said nothing, and they walked past.

Then, as evening began to emanate across the sky, he felt a raindrop.

They then walked in silence, with the woman occasionally taking a loud and messy swig from the flask he had given her, or chewing noisily on the hardtack and dried beef he shared.

He felt, saw, and heard more raindrops.

Eventually, just before the rain worsened, they came across an inn.

Nothing about the inn was at all remarkable. It consisted of four walls, at least two stories of rooms, and a small stable. The stable was manned by a wiry lad who could not have seen more than thirteen years, and he was all skin, bones, large teeth, and a wild mess of hair.

Ren paid him a silver to take care of Strider, but not before taking Strider's saddle.

The interior was large, filled with a small number of chairs and tables. From the kitchen wafted smells that were not unpleasant. There were a few other occupants, men and women, and children all. Some of the men looked hardened.

All looked up as Ren and Ghost entered. More specifically, as Ghost entered.

The two ignored the stares as they chose an empty table.

For the nervous-looking innkeeper who approached, Ren laid a few silvers on the table, and then lifted Ghost on to his saddlebag as a makeshift high-chair, so that her chest was at least partially level with the rim of the table. "A room, water, and two of whatever food you have, please," Ren said, as he then took a seat.

The innkeeper swallowed, doing his best not to look at Ghost, who simply leaned on her small staff. "Uh.. we have a warm rabbit stew, freshly made. Will…will that work for you and your… er, companion?"

Ren nodded, and so the innkeeper scooped up the coins hurriedly. A moment later, the man placed two cups on the table before them.

Ren took a sip of his drink and resisted the urge to grimace. The water was tepid, but drinkable.

The hearth filled the room with a nice warmth.

Ren felt entrapped.

A few young children, including the stable boy, were all staring at Ren's tiny companion. Ren ignored them. Ghost, on the other hand, leered at the children, making them scurry away in fright.

Aside from that, all was quiet.

He did not like it.

He hated inns.

Truth be told, he could not stand most buildings.

He took a deep breath and took another sip of water.

Hopefully, the rain would not last long.

As the innkeeper set their bowls of stew in front of them, the door to the inn slammed open.

Ren watched out of the corner of his eye as a group of rough-looking men entered. As they did, the room fell silent.

The leader of the group was an ugly-looking man whose bulk and features seemed equal parts pig, fat, and muscle. He was girted in chainmail and leathers and spurs. Belted at his side was a sword. He held open his arms wide, and then laughed, his ugly face contorting into a grin. "Why so silent? We are but searching for a place upon which to lay our weary heads."

He then whistled to the innkeeper, like how one would a simple hound. "Daeron? That you, me fine lad?"

The innkeeper looked pale and afraid. Still, he slowly walked forward, and the piggish man slung an arm around the innkeeper's shoulder as if they were a pair of old friends. "Now, Daeron, I feel hurt. Truly, I do. This lack of gratitude… why it's like a knife to the back."

A moment later, he sent poor Daeron down to the floor with a sudden clout to the side of the head. "now then, since we have those pleasantries out of the way… I do believe that you owe my fellows and I some taxes, and food."

The innkeeper dizzily got to his feet. "Y-yes, Ser Oryn. R-right away."

Oryn, the piggish man, then looked over at the tavern maids with an unpleasant grin. With a second whistle, two of the man's 'fellows' roughly pulled one of the poor girls onto their now-sitting leader's lap. Like a dog in the sand, he slipped his hands down her bodice, and under her skirt, and began to roughly paw at her. His men laughed, some even joining in. Everyone else did not even look up from their drinks or food.

The smart thing to do would have been to ignore it.

_All it takes for evil to prosper is for good people to not take a stand._

Ren's hand clenched into a fist around his knife.

As the barmaid began to whimper, Ren stood up, palming the knife. "Stay here, Ghost," he whispered.

Ghost smirked.

With surety in his step, he strode towards the brigands. Oryn looked up. "What's this? A ragged man? Well, what do you want?"

"Let the girl go, and leave. You are distressing these people," Ren said in an even tone.

Oryn looked at him for a moment, and then he and his men burst out laughing. "Well, well, my lads. It looks like we got a real mummer here with us. That's just fine, as we could use some entertainment!"

Ren's face remained impassive. "I'm not going to ask you again."

Oryn's piggish eyes began to gleam. "So, the mummer wants to be a hero, eh? Tell me, are you deficient in the head, or just eager to die?"

He then pushed the girl to the ground and stood up to his freakish height. "Do you not know who we are, mummer-shit? We're the Dragon bone boys, sworn knights of Housse Qoherys. We keep order in these here parts, and as such, we-"

Though he was armed, his mouth was large and wide. In the next moment, Ren's pilfered knife was embedded deep into the brigand's mouth and throat.

"You talk too much," Ren said, as he jerked out the knife.

The piggish corpse gurgled and then dropped to the ground with a rattle and thump of leather and steel.

For a long moment, no one dared to say a word.

"Kill the fucker!" one of Oryn's men screamed.

As they charged, Ren ducked under a clumsy blow and then slashed the knife across the man's eyes. As the man stumbled back, Ren then dove to the side, rolled to his feet, and drew out his dark-grey sword, to swiftly parry a mace blow and then hamstrung another fighter with the knife, leaving the cutting tool embedded in the man's leg.

A third man bull-rushed him, an ax swinging towards his head. Ren swiftly raised his smokey sword and cut upwards, letting the edge embed deep into the thick wooden handle, while he swiftly drew the skinning knife at his side and stabbed it through the ax wielder's head as well. In a small shower of blood, he pulled out the knife. He then swung his blade, axe-handle still attached, into the face of another brigand, nearly shearing off the top of his head, and covering the floor with grey matter.

The pieces of the now-severed ax-handle fell to the ground.

His sword reflected no light.

Then, he heard thunderous footsteps rushing towards him from behind.

Almost on instinct, he reversed his grip, and his dark sword stabbed backward. It hit flesh, and he heard a low gasp of pain.

Quickly, he yanked out his blade and heard the small deluge of blood and guts as they hit the floor.

Slowly, he rose and watched as the man he had just stabbed crumpled to the ground on his knees, his hands trying uselessly to keep in his innards. It was not a clean-cut, and he would die messily and in pain.

In the next moment, Ren's knife opened up the man's pock-marked throat, and he gurgled and died, just like Oryn.

He looked about at the men he had just killed as he sheathed his knife and grey sword. He then turned towards the tavern girl. She was almost drenched in blood. She looked up at him in… fear.

He held out a gentle hand towards her.

A moment later, she vomited and then scurried away.

The innkeeper, Daeron, looked at Ren with… anger? "What have you done?" he whispered hoarsely.

Ren ignored him, and then went to each of the bodies, relieving them of their coin purses. He then proceeded to toss each of the coin pouches onto the nearby table. "That should cover the damages," he said.

Everyone else looked at him in fear. "Butcher," one whispered.

Then, Daeron's face grew angry. "What the fuck have you done?"

Ren shrugged. "These men were abusing you, that girl, and your hospitality. I saved you. I helped you."

Daeron shook his head. "These were knights and men of House Qoherys. When they find out what happened here, they'll kill all of us."

"Then bury the bodies. No one will find out."

"Fuck you!" Daeron screamed. "You've just as much killed us all!"

A moment later, everyone else began to scream insults at Ren. He ignored them all as he examined the weapons of the dead men. Most of them were of middling quality, though, he did note a knife with a dragonbone handle.

At least, he ignored everyone else until one threw a bowl at his head, which he managed to dodge. More bowls then followed, as well as half-eaten food.

"If we kill him, then maybe House Qoherys won't come after us!"

"Fuck that, we take 'im in alive! Lord Qoherys might even reward us."

As they spoke, everyone else in the inn got to their feet.

Ren's word was quickly out of his sheathe once more. Even still, he did not favor his odds. Despite his weapon, he was still out numbed, and he no longer had the element of surprise.

The air grew tense, and then… Daeron sighed, the anger leaving the innkeeper's face. "Take your tiny companion and go, ser. Just go."

Ren looked at him for a long moment.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

He looked at the floor, covered in blood, and at the other residents of the inn, all with faces full of anger and fear.

Ren sighed, and he and Ghost quietly departed.

* * *

After the skirmish at the inn, Ren and Ghost traveled for long distances in pure silence, save for the sound of Strider's hooves.

Days and nights passed, and neither said a single word.

As the fire crackled, Ghost craned her tiny neck towards where Ren lay with his head on his travel sack. "Why did you not go back to the Reach after the battle?"

He sighed. "How did you know I was from the Reach?"

She smirked. "I have my ways."

He sighed. "When I awoke after the battle ended, I was almost buried under a mound of corpses. Men, and women, that I had marched into battle alongside. After the slaughter… I did not feel as if I deserved to return home. So, the next six years… I wandered. I wandered and avoided bounty hunters. But I could just not go home. So, for the past six years… I have felt lost."

The tiny women nodded, though it looked as if she did not fully believe him. "That was a good thing you did, back at the inn. Helping that woman."

"Indeed. I could plainly see her gratitude, along with what seemed to be the remnants of her breakfast. The gratitude of the others was just as plain to see. It was practically singing off their lips as they threw their bowls at me, and threatened to kill me. Indeed, such gratitude."

"Would you have done any differently?"

Ren fell silent for a moment and then shook his head. "No. It was the right thing to do, consequences be damned."

"Indeed, it was, young man."

The fire crackled.

"Beren," he then said.

"Hmm?"

He craned his neck towards her. "My name is Beren."

Ghost looked at him, and then smiled, a thing that, for once, held no mocking, merely a gentleness that seemed at slight odds with her craggy face. "Beren… a most strong name indeed."

Several long days later, days filled with snippets of idle conversation (and strangely ribald jokes on Ghost's part) the two decided to part ways. It was at the stretch of land between Oldstones and the Green Fork where they spent one last campfire as companions.

As morning came, they doused the campfire, and so said their goodbyes.

"I will admit, it was nice, traveling with kind company after so long," Beren said, as he held out his hand. "You kept things… a bit interesting, to say the least. Fare thee well, Ghost."

She took his hand. "A pleasure to have been your traveling companion as well. May your wanderings be ever fruitful. Also, remember this…"

As she said this, she crooked a finger for him to bend down. He did so, and she whispered in his ear. "Not all who wander are lost. Remember what Lights the Way."

Before he could react, she then swiftly pecked him full on the lips. With a final laugh and cackle, she then started off.

He watched, bemusedly, hand on his lips, as she ambled off, eventually fading into the mist.

Shaking his head, he turned, mounted Strider, and headed upwards, following the curve of the Green Fork.

In the distance, he saw the ugly and squat towers of the Twins.

Overhead, a single eagle flew across the sky.

It was quiet.

As dusk began to fall, he made his campsite with the last of his firewood.

It was an unusually clear night, for the Riverlands, allowing him a clear view of the stars. They were too numerous to count.

He closed his eyes and laid his head upon the damp, bare ground.

In so doing, however, he failed to notice the strange mist settling in around him.

* * *

Birdsong was the first thing he heard.

The first thing he felt was the gentle caress of warm sunshine upon his face.

When he awoke, he was lying on soft grass.

He shot up. How? How had he gotten here?

More to the point, where was here?

He looked about. He was within a verdant forest, filled with green and birdsong and sunshine and comforting shade. For a moment, he saw perched on a branch an eagle. The raptor looked upon him with amber eyes. It blinked, and then, it flew off.

Then, he heard it.

A song.

But it seemed more than just that. It was….

He had no thoughts that could begin to describe it, save that it called to his very soul. Just hearing it soothed his burdens, and lifted up his weary thoughts. IF he had to do naught but listen to that song until the end of his days, until the end of time, then he would be content.

Entranced he followed the song. He followed it over the grass and through the trees. Not once did he stumble, not once did he falter. He just kept following.

He kept following until he came to a clearing.

Then….

He saw her.

She was in the center of the clearing, and she was garbed in a dress of pure and kind blue. Her skin was pale, and she seemed to glow with an inner radiance. But mostly, his eyes were drawn to her hair, for it was as black as the finest of sable cloaks, and seemed to glisten in the sunlight.

She was…

Beautiful.

He watched as she danced and spun and twirled and sang, it was as if her feet never once touched the ground as if she were floating upon the very air itself.

He was entranced.

How long he stood there, watching, he did not know.

He just kept watching as she danced and spun and twirled and sang.

He took a single step forward, his boot lightly crushing the grass he stood upon.

Somehow, that soft _crunch _echoed through the glade.

Then, suddenly, she stopped dancing, her back facing him.

Slowly, she turned, her long black hair, which went down to her ankles, swished with her movement.

He should have fled, but he could not move. Brown eyes met the eyes of the purest grey, set in a face that could only be described as beautiful.

Their eyes met, and it felt as if the world, that time itself, stood still.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I am sure you can all see where this is going. I decided to stick with the original first names because well… some things are just too sacred to overtly change, even in fanfiction.**

**As for what house this version of Beren comes from, I already left a pretty big clue.**

**Read, review, enjoy, and Happy Holidays!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4. Reign of the Elf-Friend: Cats and Brides

**The Elf-Friend**

Long through the night did Jae and his new small council argue and debate and agree about various issues.

"What about a lord of Coin?" Jae then asked. "Lord Celtigar's tenure has left us with a great deal of unpopular taxes. Many are all but howling for them to be taken down."

At that, many names were passed about; Lord Manderly of Dunstonbury, The Lord of House Frey, and many more.

Then, Lord Massey cleared his throat. "I actually have an idea of who we could pick. But I will warn you, he can be a bit… much."

Jae raised a silvery eyebrow. "Oh? Who is it?"

Lord Massey interlaced his fingers. "Tell me… what do you know about the Red Cat of the West?"

* * *

**The Red Cat**

_The Westerlands_

_Several months ago, before the return of Jaehaerys, …_

He held their attention.

He held their attention as he flipped a golden dragon onto the table. It was not the first he had spent. Far from it, the other passersby had lost count of how many he had flipped onto that particular table, at least at this particular tavern.

He had flipped many on to that table, and to all watching, it seemed that he was almost incapable of running out of them

The man seemed a strange sight; willowy and lean, whilst dressed in bright and expensive clothing that almost bordered on garish.

But what drew the eye of many were his hair and beard; both were of a bright, almost fiery crimson, while his mustachios were painted a shining gold. Gold, like the coins that seemed to but drip from his fingers. His smile was also a flash of pure ivory.

"Ah, my good man," the flamboyant man declared to the innkeeper, who could not stop smiling at his good fortune. "Another round of food and drinks for all my friends in this tavern!"

That earned him a few cheers.

He had been at the tavern since yesterday.

By his side, the golden man's companion shook his head. He was tall like the golden man, but probably weighed at least a stone or two more of pure muscle, which was evident even through his simple clothing. Arms as thick as tree trunks were crossed against a solid, barrel of a chest. His hair and beard were also red, though less fiery or shiny than the flamboyant man's.

For the past several weeks, these two had been going from tavern to tavern, town to town, and had spent ample amounts of gold and silver in frivolous ways, sometimes even just tossing it to any and all passersby.

No one really knew who they were.

The muscled man sighed. "Tu, we really need to get going."

The flamboyant man waved him off flippantly. "Yes, yes, and we will Roy, we will."

He then stood dramatically upon the table. "Alas my friends, but my dour companion is correct, for it is time that we took our leave. Still, you have all been most gracious, most welcoming, and most kind. So, a final round on me, and a final toast!"

He raised his flagon of ale high. "To gold! May it never lose its luster!"

"TO GOLD!" came the rousing reply.

_Clip-clop, clip-clop. _

_Clip-clop, clip-clop._

The clip-clops of the cart's two horses sounded out through the forest, the inn and town now long and far behind them.

"This is getting annoying, Tu," Roy grumbled. "In fact, this entire plan of yours is idiotic. Why in all the seven hells do you believe that it would ever work?"

"Oh please. Have a bit of faith in me, old friend. Besides, when have I ever steered you wrong?"

One of Roy's russet-red eyebrows slightly rose.

"Not counting the… one time in Harroway town," said Tu.

Up a bit more went the eyebrow.

"And that time with the irate smith."

It rose higher.

"That innkeeper had been a very rude and uncouth sort. I had not touched one hair on his daughter's head. I was just making some casual conversation with her!"

If the brow could rise any higher than that brow would have been set in the annals of history as the only brow that could say so much with so little, as well as being able to completely leave a human face.

Ty simply looked away and pouted like a child, leaving Roy to finally lower his brow, and sigh. For a bit, there was nothing but the creak of the cart's wheels, and the _clip-clop_ of the hooves of their horses.

"This will work, Roy," Tu said adamantly. "It has to."

Roy let out another sigh and just shook his head, but said nothing more.

Then, as they continued through the woods, Tu brought the cart to a quick halt.

There were some fallen trees blocking the rest of the path.

There was then a slight rustle of leaves.

Slowly, Ty and Roy looked up and around to see that they were surrounded. Roy grabbed for a long, cloth-wrapped item, but Tu put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

It was a motley bunch that surrounded them, all clothed in leathers and clothes that were camouflaged in the colors of the forests. They were mostly westermen, but there were also dornish, river-folk, essosi, and even some summer islanders among their ranks. It was also an even smattering of men and women.

These were bandits, robbers who had been terrorizing the roads of the West for a good several months.

The leader seemed to be a very tall bowman, with a bald, scarred pate, boiled studded leathers, and a pitch-black bow. Draongbone, it would seem.

He raised up an arrow and pointed it between Tu's eyes. "Surrender yer valuables," the bowman, known as Stevron Six-Strings, said, as he pulled back on his bowstring.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Normally, when one was surrounded by a large group of thuggish and armed bandits, one was either defiant or begging for mercy.

But the flamboyant man was none of those things. This was shown in how he reacted.

He did not defiantly draw his weapon, or beg for mercy. Instead?

Instead, he laughed and clapped his hands for joy. To the surprise of the bandits, and the exasperation of his companion, the flamboyant figure even leaped nimbly off the cart, landed nimbly on his feet, and started to dance a happy little jig.

"Finally! Do you lot have any idea just how much gold I've been wasting over the past few weeks, trying to entice you lot to come after me?" he exclaimed.

That had not been what the bandits had expected. "…What?" Stevron Six-Strings asked.

Tu ignored him as he continued to pace about, even as the various weapons followed him about. "I mean, for the Seven's sake, have you any idea how much inflation I've already caused through my surplus spending of all that gold? I know for a fact that I have spent an average of about 300 gold dragons a day or 3,000 silver stags, or 30,000 copper stars! While it does go into the pockets of those nice innkeepers, and thus will circulate, most likely through other inns, brothels, and eateries, it was also witnessed by everyone in visible sight, and I had to do that sort of thing for at least twenty-one days. So, of course, that meant I spent/ wasted upwards of 6,300 gold dragons, which translates to 63,000 silvers, which translates to 630,000 coppers. At least, that's what it is supposed to be. The ratio will probably rise from ten-to-one to maybe 13.1-to-one, at least! Why, I've probably caused prices in those areas to dramatically increase by at least a steep 10 percent, if not in the entire markets of the Westerlands!"

Ty threw up his hands in exasperation as he looked at his friend. "Gods, the length I go to, eh Roy!?"

The bandits were all no less dumbfounded. "…What?"

The flamboyant man's companion sighed. "Tu…"

The dandy blinked, and then cleared his throat. "Right, sorry about that, my good sers and madams. Anyway, as I was saying, I am happy to have finally found you all."

"Why?" Doelle the Drummer asked, her fingers tightening on the thick wooden shaft of her large mace. "What do you want?"

The flamboyant man looked at them all and flashed a grin. "What do I want? I have come to offer you all a chance at employment."

That had not been what any of the bandits had expected. "E-employment?" Stevron Six-strings asked.

"Yes, em-ploy-men-_t_! As caravan guards, guides, and as my personal guards."

"…What?"

Despite how impossible that was, it seemed as if the forest had an echo.

Tu put his hands behind his back and leaned forward, as if he were a parent about to lecture a child about something important. "You have all been harrying trade and caravans and such in the Westerlands for well over five months now. That has been leading to a marked decrease in foreign revenue and importation by at least six percent."

As he spoke, his fingers began to unconsciously twitch. "Now, ordinarily, that really makes me upset. Actually, it does make me upset. And yet… the fact is that you lot seemingly have the ability to slip in and about the whole of the Westerlands unseen, like slippery eels, and in very quick time. Thus, it can only point to the fact that you obviously know some rather daring and ingenious shortcuts and whatnot. As such, if you were to accept employment as caravan guides and guards, why, it would probably cut travel time down by at least fifteen percent! Maybe even twenty! That, in turn, results in the products, especially the perishables goods, like fish and meat and such, to be fresher, and which in turn allows them to be sold at a better and higher markup! Can you not imagine it?!"

As he babbled and his fingers twitched, many of the bandits lowered their weapons, now very perplexed, if only by many of the strange words emanating from his mouth. The man's companion, at this point, had simply cradled his face in his hands, rubbing it in exasperation.

He often rubbed his face with his hands. It could be considered a true wonder that his face was not worn smooth after all this time.

Then, Stevron cleared his throat. "Uh… why should we accept this employment of yours?" he asked, arrow still offhandedly aimed at Tu.

The flamboyant man stopped rambling for a moment, and then looked at each and every one of the bandits, his face somber. "I can understand, to a point, why you all are doing this."

"What the fuck do you know about it, fancy man?" Willard White-eye retorted; his grip tight on his ax.

Tu shrugged. "You're all scared. You are scared people who, if I were to hazard a guess, would rather not be doing this sort of thing at all. You were all at the battle of the God's Eye, weren't you?"

"How in the Seven Hells could you know that?" Dorelle asked.

Tu gestured about. "You're all in the sort of formation that just screams 'military.' Plus, most of your targets in the past several months have been caravans all belonging to houses who have been verbally adamant in their loyalty to Maegor. All of them were carried out with a sort of precision not ever quite seen in simple robbers and bandits, all without any casualties, which also points you all as being an honorable lot."

The bandits all looked at him dumbfounded. He shrugged. "Shall I continue, or can we all quit wagging our tongues so you can accept my offer, and thus have access to warm food, better clothing and armor, solid pay, and, more importantly, protection from Maegor?"

The bandits were all silent for a moment, the air as tense as a drawn bowstring.

Roy inched his hands down towards the cloth-wrapped item behind him.

Then… they all began to lower and sheathe their weapons.

"Who are you?" Stevron asked as he returned his arrow to his quiver.

The flamboyant man smiled another ivory grin, and then drew back his cloak in a dramatic flourish, revealing to all the golden, roaring lion on crimson that had been hiding underneath. As all the faces of the bandits collectively paled (one even pissed himself), the Red Cat let out a loud and lusty laugh from deep within his belly. "Oh, did I forget to mention? My name is Tybalt-Tuor Lannister. In addition, I am the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and the Head of House Lannister. I am most pleased to finally introduce myself to you all. But please, you can just call me Tybalt, Tuor, Ty, or Tu, once we become close friends."

Back on the cart, Roy, otherwise known as Red Royland Reyne, picked up the cloth-wrapped object, unwrapped it, and then casually unsheathed it in one slow motion, showing to all present the famed and feared crimson blade of the Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain.

Ty... Tu…Tybalt…Tuor… _Lord Lannister's_ grin then turned a bit predatory as he looked upon the stunned and pale bandits. "So… what say you all to my offer?"

Two days later, Tybalt-Tuor Lannister, the Red Cat of The West, returned to Casterly Rock, followed by a large and motley group of now-former bandits.

They were all chatting as if they were old friends….

* * *

**The Elf Friend**

_Now_

Despite himself, Jae burst out laughing. "Surely, some part of that tale must be exaggerated?"

Albin Massey shook his head. "No, my lord. The Cat of the West's silver tongue is reputed to be able to charm the very clouds out of the sky, and it is tempered only by his knowledge for sums and figures."

"And would he be open to becoming my Master of Coin?" Jae asked.

The lord shrugged his twisted shoulders. "Perhaps. Despite his aptitude for sums and figures, Lord Tybalt-Tuor is a bit of an odd, flighty, and eccentric sort. But I do think that he would not be averse to accepting the position… so long as he felt himself to be suitably entertained."

Jae nodded, and then turned towards Celeborn.

"The message shall be sent out by morning, your Grace," the Hand said.

"Excellent," Jae said. He then stood. "My lords, all that we have discussed here at this table, and all that we will discuss here, will be sure to help bring the Six Kingdoms into many years of peace and solidarity. For that, I thank you. But, for now, I bid you all a good night. Until the morrow, my lords."

With that, the lords all silently departed, until only Jae and Celeborn and Russ were left within the room.

With a sigh, Jae collapsed back into his chair. "It is utterly amazing how, in all the myriad tales of kings and emperors and princes and such, they never seem to have to deal with the minutia of economies and infrastructure and peace treaties. And I have to do this until the day I die. Ah, but the burdens of kingship, I suppose."

"Such tales rarely ever do mention such things, your Grace, else they would not be as entertaining," Celeborn replied. "But, so far, you are holding yourself admirably. You shall be fine."

Jae gave a tired smile. "Thank you, my friend."

As Lord Celeborn then quietly left, Jae looked out one of the windows of the council room. The moon was bright and full.

Kingship.

Indeed, they left a great deal out of the tales.

But he would be strong.

He would not end up like his father.

He would be strong.

He then looked to Russ, still standing silently, like an immovable pillar. "Russ. Can we speak for a moment?"

* * *

**The Protector**

_50 AC_

_Red Keep, Training Yard_

_Several months later._

The new recruits all stood at attention in the training yard.

Hand upon Blackfyre's pommel, Russandol looked over them all with a keen eye.

Since Jaehaerys' establishment of the Royal Guardians, many squires and knights had flocked to the Red Keep from across the realm, so as to offer their swords to the new order. A good deal of the knights had even been from the disbanded Faith Militant, at least those who had not joined the new Order of the Dragon. Russ had personally chosen the veteran knights and fighters that now filled the Guardians' ranks. However, he had asked that he be allowed to oversee the training regimen of the squires and green knights. To the surprise of many of the human courtiers and knights, he had even chosen a woman warrior, Jonquil Darke to serve among the ranks. But none had truly protested, as King Jaehaerys had made it quite clear that the management of the Royal Guardians would fall fully under Russandol's purview.

As Lord Commander of the Royal Guardians, it would be up to Russandol to make the squires worthy of the station of Royal Guardian.

As he was doing now.

Assembled before him were a variety of squires and freshly-minted knights, many of whom were second and third sons of noble houses, whilst others were hedge knights and lowborn squires.

He looked over them all with an appraising eye. They had all been standing there in silence for nearly half-an-hour in full armor (training armor for the squires), as an exercise in endurance and following orders. Most did not look at him. Some did. Of those some, a few looked upon him with fear or awe. The rest looked with disdain.

Perhaps it was time to begin.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "I look upon you all, standing here in this yard, with dreams in your head, and weapons at your waists. You may think yourselves the cream of the crop, that when I look upon you, I see something magnificent. To that, I disagree. All I see when I look upon you… is waste."

As they all looked upon him in confusion, he continued. "Each of you has potential, that is true, but you also are burdened. You are burdened by false ideals and dreams of glory and honor, as well as the belief that your stations in life afford you certain privileges. That in turns makes you waste upon the battlefield.

"Combat is not a thing of glory. It is not a way to achieve prestige. It is not something that one should ever wish to seek out. More to the point, there is nothing honorable about it. It is a thing of madness, death, and pure chaos. It is not a thing about which songs should truly sing. If you think that it is, then you are a fool who has no business in a battle."

His eyes roamed over all of them. "You will learn to cast aside these farcical notions that your heads have been filled with from the time you were babes in swaddling clothes. As Royal Guardians, we have but a singular duty; it is not to gain glory or prestige. It is not to become legends. It is not even to gain honor. No, it is to protect the royal family and to kill anyone who would attempt to kill them.

"It matters not to me whether you are a lord's son, a peasant, a hedge knight…." His eyes then rested upon Jaehaerys, who, like the rest of the recruits, stood at attention. "…. Or even a king. You are here to learn how to truly fight, how to truly kill… and how to truly protect."

His hand closed around the hilt of Blackfyre. "Like in battle, there will be no honor here…. Only survival. Only duty."

He then heard one of the highborn green knights let loose a snort of derision. He was a tall human and seemed rather young in age. Upon his tabard were three death's-head moths with their wings spread. House Horpe, if Russ remembered correctly. "What nonsense."

Russandol looked down upon the young human. "You think that what I say is nonsense?"

All turned to the Horpe knight. To his credit, he continued forward, with an angry scowl at his face. "Honor is everything. If we are to be knights it is something that we must hold above all else. To ask us to abandon that is sheer lunacy."

Russandol tilted his head at the young man. "What is your name, human?"

"Jorrin. Jorrin Horpe. Nephew of Harry Horpe. One of the six knights that you killed at the Trial of Seven-and-One."

Ah. Interesting. "Very well, Jorrin Horpe. Since you have a grievance with me, then perhaps now is the best time to settle things."

As he spoke, he walked over to the training-weapon rack and picked up a sparring sword. He then tossed it to the slightly startled Horpe knight, who fumblingly caught it. "Take up this sword. Fight me 'honorably.' Prove me wrong," Russandol said.

The Horpe knight looked unsure for a moment, but then grew a determined look in his eye, as he buckled his helmet on with a snarl.

He then strode up to Russandol. "Per the rules of chivalric honor, I shall wait until you yourself are armed."

Russandol nodded. "Very well. Truly, an honorable way of beginning a duel, _ser _Horpe."

As he turned to grip at the sparring blade, Russandol then drew it, pivoted, and slammed the flat of his training blade against Jorrin's helmet in a surprise attack. As the man reeled back in a daze clutching at his helmeted head, Russ bashed him once in the chest, then swiftly kicked him to the ground, knelt upon his chest and sword-wielding arm, and pressed the edge of his blunted sparring blade against the knight's throat. "An honorable man would have allowed you to regain your bearings. You just tried to fight with honor. I didn't. And so, was this a real battle, with real blades and weapons, you would be honorably dead. You would have died with honor, but you would be dead nonetheless, whilst I would live because I fought dishonorably. If you truly wanted to win, you would have attacked me when my back was turned. At least then, you would have stood something of a chance."

He tossed aside Jorrin's helmet so that they were now eye-to-eye. "If you still think honor should be prized above all, then go ask the widows and families of every honorable knight and soldier who died in battle. Ask them if it is comforting to them that their loved ones died honorably. I suspect that you would not like the answer."

He rose, tossed aside his training blade, and then swiftly hoisted the still-dazed Jorrin Horpe to his feet, before turning to look over the assembled knights and squires. "So, remember this, all of you; it is better to survive a battle through dishonor than to die honorably in battle. Honor can always be regained, but a life? A life is irreplaceable."

He noted how all watched him with rapt attention now, even Jorrin, as well as the others who been derisive to him.

He then nodded. "Now, if there no other objections, we shall begin. Today, you will spar. It shall be three on one, one fighter against three of their compatriots, mixed in with the castle men-at-arms. When the bouts begin, your goal is to either 'kill' your opponents through any manner possible, or at least survive for a half-hour. Upon that half-hour, you will rotate. However, any who falls within the first half-hour must do thirty pushups and ten laps around the yard, in your full armor. If you complain even once, then you will face me, after which you will do forty push-ups and fifteen laps. Am I understood?"

No one said anything. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps you have now all become deaf. I said, _am I understood?"_

As one, they all hurriedly answered with a collective "Yes!"

"Good. But, since I believe in there being more than once choice, I will give you an alternative; if you so wish, instead of the push-ups and laps, you will have the option of facing my daughter or my son."

He gestured to the side, where his children stood. Nerdanel rested her hand on the handle of her bastard sword, while her brother Mahtan stood still and tall.

After giving the squires and trainees a moment to size up his children, Russandol spoke again. "Now, enough empty staring. Begin!"

As they were all squared off into groups and started to fight with varying degrees of skill, Russandol briefly ruminated upon his current position.

Thousands of years ago, Maedhros had been a prince, a leader of his people's armies. Maedhros had fought against ancient horrors… and he had murdered in cold blood. Even now, he could still hear the screams of the telari as they were butchered… he could even feel the flames of the burning ships upon Maedhros' face, drying his tears against his cheeks.

He remembered Maedhros' father, dying against the Traitor, upon that field of Ice and Fire.

Mostly though, he remembered that damned Oath.

All for three beautiful gems.

It had all been so foolish.

Now, in penance, he had been charged by High King Fingolfin to protect this strange human family of dragon riders. To protect them, and help them to grow. In the face of what he had done, this task seemed… noble.

Yes, Maedhros had been a murderer and a fool. But Russandol…. Russandol would be a protector. He would regain his honor.

Perhaps he would even truly become a hero.

He shook his head free of the memories and turned his attention back to the training yard. "Denys! You have just died. Thirty push-ups and ten laps. Then try again!"

He had much to regain, and long was the road before him. Long, winding, and perhaps more than a bit treacherous.

But all it needed was a single step forward.

He looked down at his stump, at the sword in his hand... and then towards the west.

Sacrifice. Duty. Redemption.

If he was lucky, they would come.

Then, perhaps... his children would be free...

He then turned back to the training Yard. "Erred Morrigen! You are dead. Push-ups and laps, or face one of my children! It is your choice! Do not tarry, or you will face me!"

* * *

Rogar and Celeborn watched from atop a balcony above the training yard as the King sparred against three of the Red Keep's men-at-arms. It had been a slow day for the council and thus had not required the king's attention.

Rogar watched as Jaehaerys wove around one squire's blow, and punched another in the face.

"The king takes to his martial training well," he mused.

"Indeed. Even in Beleriand, High King Fingolfin saw to it that he was trained in the martial and cerebral arts," Celeborn said from beside him. "He has grown into a fine young man. He will be a good king."

Rogar nodded. They watched as the king fell to one knee from another squire's lucky blow, and then returned the favor, getting back to his feet as he did. They then watched as Russandol's tall daughter utterly trounce a Morrigen squire with what seemed as hardly an effort.

As the half-hour came to a close, Russandol called for a ten-minute break. As the weary and bruised squires all rested, Rogar saw Jahaerys look up as a small group approached. Rogar followed his gaze and saw young Princess Alyssane, accompanied by her retinue of ladies-in-waiting, once of whom was a tall elf-maid with long black hair that fell past her waist. The ladies all handed out small pitchers of wine and water to the squires and the knights. The elven maiden, who seemed as austere as a queen, coolly handed Lord Russandol a pitcher of water.

Rogar watched as the Targaryen cousins exchanged smiles, and he noted how their hands intertwined briefly, and how their gazes lingered for a moment longer than could be called platonic. His smile vanished from his bearded face as he saw this.

He looked up at Celeborn. "Lord Hand. Would you walk with me?"

The elf nodded. "Of course."

As they walked away from the training yard and back into the red keep, Rogar spoke. "It has just occurred to me that, having already reached his majority, the king is now ready for marriage… as is his cousin."

Celeborn looked at him. "I take it that the only reason you are even bringing this up is to find a way to prevent King Jaehaerys and Princess Alyssane from marrying one another."

Rogar looked up at the elf in shock. Had he read his mind?

Still, best to move forward. "The last time a Targaryen was married to his sister, the Faith rose up in revolt. They have been pacified, especially with Jaehaerys' disbandment of the Faith Militant, reforging them into the Royal Order of the Dragon, making the monarchy the Defender of the Faith, as well as his pardoning to any who rose up against his siblings… but mollification is, at best, a tenuous thing," Rogar said. "It has helped that Alyssane's mother was the niece of the High Septon... but she is also the daughter of the monster."

Celeborn stroked his chin in thought. "You are perceptive. But young Jaehaerys, though intelligent and well-meaning, is also willful and arrogant and headstrong to an extent. If we were to press a forced betrothal upon either him or his cousin, they will most likely just elope, the consequences be damned. And given the Faith's last reaction to such a marriage… the results would not be favorable in the least."

Rogar nodded. "Indeed. Yet, all can see it, the way they look at one another, especially the boy's mother. They spend as much time together as they can, eating, reading, even bathing together! As such, can you think of any way to peacefully resolve such an issue? The Valyrians have bred brother to sister for centuries. Yes, they are not siblings, but still first cousins! Most likely, were they to marry, Jaehaerys and Alyssane's children would marry one another as well. Then, we could end up with another Uprising of the Faith! Perhaps even ones in multiple succession! You can muzzle a wolf, but even good leather can still be snapped and broken. Have you any suggestions as to what we can do to even try to avert this?"

The elf lord was silent for a moment. "Yes, but it is a bit…. extreme, to say the least."

Rogar raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"At the next council meeting, one of us will _gently _broach the subject, but it must be merged under a suggestion of how our young king can appear strong to his subjects. His family's rule is currently teetering on a knife's edge as it is, as the wounds of Maegor's rule are still somewhat fresh. Jaeharys needs to show strength. One way to do so would be to emulate his grandfather. We could suggest to the king that he follow his grandfather's example. Take two wives. Allow him his cousin and… one other. Allow, for now, a precedent that the reigning Targaryen monarch is allowed to have two spouses."

Rogar crossed his arms. "And why in the Seven Hells would we suggest that?"

"So as to avert future troubles, to a point."

"How do you mean?"

Celeborn clasped his hands behind his back. "You and I both know, no doubt, what the results of incest are, the damage it can do to a bloodline, whether animal or human; infirmity, defects, lesser mental capabilities…. Even madness and cruelty. One but need look upon Maegor's example and the terror that he inflicted upon this realm in his madness. It even happens with first cousins. Yet, incest is how our young king and his cousin were raised. To them, unfortunately, it is not something they deem as wrong. That can be hopefully changed if we show him physical proof of the detriments of such couplings… even if that proof has to be born from such a coupling."

Despite himself, Rogar kept listening. "Go on."

"If we attempt to push, then Jaehaerys will most likely just marry Alysanne behind our backs. But if he were allowed to marry his sister by the Realm and the Faith, to have two brides… then, perhaps, he will have two sets of children, with which we can show him. One bloodline born of healthy relations… the other born of incest. Perhaps, at the very least, we will be able to dissuade him from allowing his future generations to marry brother to sister, blood to blood, in the future, and thus avoid any more future collisions with the Faith.  
"Besides, such a marriage would help to bring in the Reach, and to mollify those lords and ladies who still hold loyalty to Maegor's memory, twisted as though it might be."

Rogar mulled over what the Hand was suggesting. As he had said, it was…. Radical. "A… interesting proposal, Lord Hand. But, who would you have in mind for this… second wife? Where would we even look? Very few nobles would ever stomach such a proposition, despite the prestige of having a daughter be a queen."

In lieu of a verbal answer, Celeborn simply raised his hand and pointed south. At once, Rogar got the message. "Dorne?"

The elf nodded. "Indeed. It is the only one of the Six Kingdoms that was never truly and fully folded in. Marrying a daughter of house Martell would go to great lengths to bringing them into the fold, to solidifying peace. Besides, and if I may speak delicately, there are those among the Dornish who do have a certain…. Open-mindedness about matters of physical intimacy."

It was a bit of a longshot, but… perhaps it could work. Rogar stroked his beard. "The current Prince Martell does have a daughter who is of an age with the King. A raven could be sent off, with the King's permission, of course. Though, there will have to be other things offered as well, perhaps."

"All things can be negotiated on that front, Lord Baratheon," Celeborn said.

The elf was right about that, at least. "But what about the Faith?" Rogar asked.

Celeborn smiled grimly. "Much as it pains me to admit… men are easily tractable. The seat of High Septon is still empty ever since the previous one's demise. A new one could be elected, one who would be willing to let the issue slide, though the exact method of convincing the Faith will be left up to the King, of course. If King Jaehaerys agrees to the proposal, then things will move forward. Besides, it is as you said; her mother was the niece of the High Septon, the mouthpiece of the Seven..."

On through the Red Keep did the Elf and the Storm Lord walk and converse…

* * *

The next day, the Small council convened early in the morning.

Despite his youth, King Jaehaerys insisted on attending every meeting, as well as giving his own input.

King Jaehaerys turned to Maglor. "My Master of Whispers? What news have you?"

Maglor shrugged artfully. "As always, I have plucked my strings, and yet, the vibrations have revealed very little, your Grace. A few tidbits, but none that needs revealing at this very moment."

The King arched a silver-gold eyebrow at that but made no comment. He then turned to the Master of Coin.

Tybalt-Tuor Lannister had settled in quite well into King's Landing, and into his position as Master of Coin. At the moment, he was leaning languidly in his chair, a copper star dancing along his fingers. Standing ever by his side was Red Roy Reyne.

The Red Cat looked up and flashed an ivory smile towards the king. "The new taxes we have implemented in place of Lord Celtigar's have been much more successful, your Grace. At the current rate, along with the taxes that we have implemented on luxury goods, we will be looking at a surplus of at least one million gold dragons by the end of the year, which will help go a long way towards revitalizing our economy and repaying our many debts. Still, in the long run, a million is but a paltry sum when it comes to the economy of a kingdom. As such, with your permission, I would like the opportunity to reach out to the Iron Bank of Braavos for a few loans."

"The Iron Bank? Are you sure that is wise?" the king asked. "The Iron Bank is not known for its forgiving nature. There are stories of kings and entire kingdoms that have been brought low by failure to repay the interest on a single loan on time. Yet, you want to ask the Bank for _a few_?"

Lord Tybalt-Tuor nodded. "I will admit that it's not an attractive option, but it's the best we have at the moment. Rebuilding a kingdom, paying off our debts, and adding on new things, such as the dragon pit, and roads? That requires an amount of capital that we currently have no easy or legal access to. Even with our new taxes on luxury items and castle renovations, even if we re-implemented Lord Celtigar's taxes (which I am sure none of us want, especially the smallfolk), hells, even if we took all the gold from every single lord and lady on the continent, it still would take us _years_, if not _decades_, for us to amass what we would need to begin, let alone complete, these projects. Though, while the third one would probably work, it would still cost all the gold in the land, and I'd wager that no one wants that."

He leaned back in his chair, as he stroked one of his golden-dyed mustachios. "While not truly ideal, at the moment, the Iron Bank is currently our best option for acquiring those needed funds within a much shorter timeframe. As for the repayment… well, leave that to me. I am sure that I can work something out."

"Very well," Jaehaerys said. "Though, I might have an idea on how we can further revitalize our nation's economy."

The Red Cat raised a red eyebrow. "Your grace?"

King Jaehaerys looked towards Lord Celeborn, who then cleared his throat. "His grace is referring to negotiating a trade agreement and Treaty of friendship between the Six Kingdoms and my homeland, Beleriand."

That drew shocked looks from many of the other human lords on the council, even Grand Maester Benifer and Damon Velaryon, who more often than not remained silent throughout the meetings of the council.

Lord Tybalt-Tuor's fingers began to twitch. "Trade?"

"Yes. After you are done, I trust you and Lord Celeborn and Lord Massey to set up the necessary arrangements? I can assure you that my Hand has High King Fingolfin's full support with this endeavor."

It was a rarity, Rogar mused; the Red Cat's famed silver and glib tongue struck dumb. After a long moment, the Westerman flashed another ivory grin. "I shall not disappoint, your grace."

"Nor shall I," added Massey.

"Well, then we are in accord," the king said. "Draw up the plans for the trade and your loans, and then bring them to me for study before you send them off."

"Of course, my king," Lord Tybalt-Tuor said with a bow of his head.

The king then looked over his entire council. "Well? Is there anything else that needs to be brought to my attention?"

Rogar cleared his throat. Time to enter the dragon's maw, it would seem. "As a matter of fact, there is."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It has been nearly a year since your return to Westeros, and you ascended to the Iron Throne. While you have done much to heal the wounds inflicted upon this realm by Maegor, the sad truth is that your family's power still teeters on a very thin edge. You need to project an aura of strength; else some might begin to think you may end up like your late father."

"And how would you suggest that I go about doing that, Lord Rogar?" Jaehaerys asked.

"Perhaps by following your grandfather's example?" Rogar ventured.

Jaehaerys' purple eyes narrowed. "Just what are you trying to get at, Lord Rogar? Speak plainly."

"What Lord Rogar is saying, your Grace, is that it is time you were married, so as to secure the succession and the bloodline," Lord Tybalt-Tuor then said.

Rogar looked upon the Red Cat with some surprise. It seemed that there were still yet many layers to the Lord of Casterly Rock's cunning.

Jaehaerys drummed his fingers upon his chair's arm. "Is that so, Lord Baratheon? Then, you should know that Alyssane and I plan to marry. Also, that until any issue is born, my niece Aerea is my heir."

"We understand, your grace," Lord Celeborn said. "And, despite what you may think, we are not here to try and dissuade you from going forth with your chosen marital plans. However, you might be aware of how such a marriage might rankle the Faith. They would demand that you marry a noblewoman of Westerosi heritage. As such, there might be a solution for that which will leave all parties… satisfied."

"And what solution might that be, my Hand?" the king asked.

"That you follow Aegon I's example, your Grace," Lord Celeborn said. "By taking two wives."

The silence in the throne room was palpable.

"An… interesting proposal," Jaehaerys then said. "But would not polygamy rouse the Faith in anger? Maegor had four wives as well as my revered grandfather who had two, and, despite my grandfather's prestige, Maegor's example is still fresher in the memories of my subjects."

"As it turns out, you may be allowed a legal precedent for it. In addition, Maegor was never legally married to Lady Harroway or Lady Tyanna, or even your sister, Queen Rhaena" Lord Massey said.

Jaehaerys turned to the twisted lord. "I beg your pardon?"

In lieu of an answer, Lord Maglor reached by his side and set upon the table a small sheath of papers. "These were found in the chambers of Visenya. It would seem that your great-aunt had a habit of keeping a detailed record of her days before she vanished."

As he spoke, he pulled out one sheet of paper. "This one, in particular, might be of interest to you, your Grace."

With a slight look of confusion, Jaehaerys took the proffered sheet of paper, his purple eyes swiftly scanning it.

As the king read, Rogar could not help but sneak a worried look at the morose-seeming Master of Whispers and the twisted Master of Laws. Would this actually work?

Jae then looked up. "I do not understand."

"Visenya makes note of the fact that the 'ceremonies' in which he was bound to Tyanna, Queen Rhaena, and Lady Alys, were not actually officiated by an ordained septon," Massey said. "Seeing as how all the Faithful had fled the city after Maegor's immolation of the Sept of Remembrance, it seemed that her son could only find a scared novice who had not even taken his holy vows to 'preform' the ceremonies. The boy had been captured during the flight of the faithful. He had been languishing in the black cells for almost a year at that point and was willing to do anything to be released. Thus, it would seem that in the eyes of the Law and the Faithful, The Monster had not engaged in actual marital polygamy. At best, it was simply a married man carrying on with his mistresses. Thus, the only Targaryen to have done so, _legally_, was your grandfather. As you no doubt recall, the Faith allowed him his dual marriages, in exchange for his conversion to the Faith of the Seven. So, in effect, you do have a legal precedent for royal polyamory, your Grace."

"But what about my cousin?" Jaehaerys asked. "What about Alyssane? Aside from this hypothetical second queen, I can think of no one else with whom I would have at my side as Queen. But I still recall well the Faith Uprising and their views on sister marrying brother, and cousin marrying first cousin. Any ideas on that, my Small Council?"

"If I may, your Grace, I have an idea about that," Tybalt-Tuor Lannister said, almost as if on cue. "That is if you would permit a humble, coin-counting cat like me to speak?"

"Go ahead, Lord Lannister."

The Red Cat of the West cleared his throat as all within the room looked upon him. "As I am sure many of us know, the Faith of the Seven was born in the hills of far-away Andalos. In that holy place, The Seven laid down many of the holy laws which are practiced and kept, among which being that the act of incest is a mortal sin."

"Yes, I am aware. I have read the _Seven-Pointed Star,_" Jaehaerys retorted lightly.

"I am sure that you have, your Grace, but what I am getting at is this; the Faith of the Seven, which was created in _Andalos_, was and has only ever been truly practiced by _Andals_. With all due respect, you are not an Andal. You are a Valyrian."

"Your point?"

"Well… last time I checked… Valyrians did not come from Andalos, nor did they worship the Seven. They had their own gods and own beliefs and rituals, which included riding dragons and marrying brothers to sisters. Therefore, Andals, and thus the Faith, cannot truly look with disdain upon how you and your Ancestors were forged by the gods. As the only dragon-riding Valyrians left in the world, I have to say that you and your family are… Exceptional. Not truly beholden to the laws and ideas of the Seven, for you were forged differently."

"Lord Lannister does raise an excellent point, your Grace," Celeborn chimed in. "Besides, I myself have taken time to peruse _The Seven-Pointed Star. _Does it not define, as one of its key tenets, that it is not the place of man to judge one another, only the Seven-Who-Are-One? In addition, whilst the text makes ample reference to Andals and andaldom, not once does it ever mention Valyrians. in addition, as a lady with Hightower blood, a family with close ties to the faith of the Seven, the marriage would at least pacify the tempers of the Faithful... especially those former swords and stars who now make up your order of the Dragon."

The king was silent for a moment. Rogar dared not to even breathe. "And where would my second bride come from?" the king then asked.

Rogar let loose a mental sigh of relief.

"Dorne, your Grace," replied Celeborn. "It is the only one of the Six Kingdoms that never truly became subservient to your Grandfather. Prince Martell has a daughter of yours and Alyssane's ages, and, since the flames of dissent and violence still run hot in those lands, marriage to the eldest daughter of their ruling family would be perhaps the best way with which to temper them, to truly make the Six Kingdoms a kingdom of One."

Jaehaerys stroked his chin.

The King then nodded. "Send a raven to Dorne. Once they reply, send a small group of Royal Guardians and trusted persons who can meet and escort the princess from the border between the Reach and Dorne. At the same time send word to House Swann that we have need of them and one of their swift ships."

Celeborn nodded and bowed. "As you wish, your grace."

"The ravens shall be sent before the day is through, your grace," Maester Benifer said.

The king nodded. "And send word to the Faith. It would seem that a new religious doctrine must be forged…"

* * *

**The White Lady**

_Several Weeks later_

Though not a Teleri, Aredhel still felt a certain kinship with the sea, like most elves. There was a serenity to it that one could rarely find on land, save perhaps in one of Beleriand's forests.

They had been sailing for roughly three days now towards Dorne, and every day, she looked out over the Narrow Sea and felt comforted.

"My men tell me that we will be approaching Sunspear within a few hours, Lady Aredhel," said Jakoro Swann as he walked up beside her. Like most of his house, the marcher lord was dark-skinned and broad of form and shoulder, on account of his house's Summer Islander blood and heritage. Slung across his back was a large golden bow, and at his side was a quiver of brightly-fletched arrows. "Once we dock, we shall have our audience with Prince Martell and daughter."

"Thank you, Lord Swann."

When Lord Celeborn had asked her to accompany the group that would escort Delora Martell to King's Landing, she had been a bit perplexed as to why for a moment. Then, it had all become clear.

As a companion and friend to princess Alyssane, Aredhel knew her better than most. As such, she would be able to take the measure of the Martell princess and thus be able to help the two at least be amicable when they married Jaehaerys.

After a month of negotiation and waiting, a raven had been received from Prince Martell. It had stated that he and his daughter were open to the marriage. After that, Aredhel and a small procession of Royal Guardians and courtiers had then been dispatched from King's Landing via one of the famed swan ships of House Swann, one of the lords of the Dornish Marches. Once they docked at Sunspear's harbor, they would meet with the princess. Then, once they had met, the group would sail back to King's Landing in the next few days, where the princess would meet her future family.

As the modest harbor and the two towers of Sunspear began to rise into sight in the distance, the sailors all began to scramble to prepare the swan ship for docking.

"Lord Swann," Aredhel then said to the lord. "What can you tell me about the princess?"

The marcher lord shrugged his broad shoulders, making his brightly colored cloak shift about. "Very little, my lady. The marcher lords and the Dornish have traditionally been the worst of enemies. For the most part, we are content to pretend the other does not exist. As for my house and kin, though we hold closer ties to Dorne than most, we have not truly had the chance to meet the Prince's firstborn daughter. Though, if it helps, she is reported to be very beautiful."

"Beauty is not all that is required of a bride my lord, but I thank you nonetheless," Aredhel said.

"With all due respect, my lady, the king is still a young man. If the bride is beautiful, then what more would he need? He should be satisfied."

"It is not merely for King Jaehaerys that I agreed to this errand," she replied. She needed to know if, at the very least, the Dronish princess and Alysanne could be cordial with one another.

A small group of nobles and men-at-arms stood waiting upon the harbor as the ship dropped anchor and docked. Aredhel could see many banners, fluttering in the wind; A grinning Skull with a golden crown on black, A yellow hand over a circle of red and black, black scorpions on red, a blue hooded hawk on silver, and many more.

Standing at the front of the group was a knight holding aloft the largest banner, and this banner bore the symbol of House Nymeros Martell; a gold spear piercing a red sun on a field of orange.

As the gangplank was connected to the pier and Lady Aredhel and the others walked down to the pier, the knight walked forward, banner held firmly in his hand.

"You are the royal party from King's landing?" the knight asked of them, his dornish accent ringing softly in her ears. "Lady Delora sent me and these fine nobles to meet you ahead of her. She and her father are most eager to meet you, just as she is eager to depart for King's Landing as soon as possible to meet King Jaehaerys."

The human was tall, almost of her height, and was garbed in armor that shined with a bright sheen. Emblazoned upon his tabard was a silver shooting star crossed with a sword over a field of purple, quartered with the symbol of House Martell. Purple, like his eyes, whilst his hair was almost as black as her own. Those purple eyes gazed out at her from a face that was olive in complexion, broken every now and then by small, faint scars, some of which disappeared under his dark beard.

"I bid you greetings, fair lady. I am Ulrick Dayne," he said, before elegantly bowing and brushing her hand lightly with his lips. "It is a pleasure to make your wondrous acquaintance."

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Ser Dayne," she said with a small smile. "I am Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin."

He smiled in return, and it was an amiable and kind and charming thing.

Many Dornishman had watched with interest as the now-larger group rode and walked through Sunspear to the Old Palace. Many eyes rested upon Aredhel and her fellow elves.

They were met at the throne room of the Tower of the Sun by the Prince and his children, including his daughter, the Princess Delora Nymeros Martell.

Jakoro's rumors had been correct, for Delora was indeed a beauty. She was of average height, busty, and curvaceous with full lips and a long mane of dark hair that tumbled in ringlets down past the small of her back. Her olive skin and face had a smattering of freckles that seemed to only add to her beauty, rather than subtract from it. Her form was clothed in orange and golden silks. When she smiled, her teeth were like white ivory.

She and her father greeted Aredhel and the others with grace. That night, Aredhel and her traveling companions supped with the Princess and her father on spiced fish cooked in Dornish snake sauce, fruits, dornish vegetables, honey, and milk. The princess was graceful, yet inquisitive, asking Aredhel all sorts of questions, questions about the king, King's Landing, about Princess Alyssane, and even a few about Aredhel herself.

The daughter of Fingolfin answered all that she could, as diplomatically as possible; that the king was kind, and that he and his sister were looking forward to meeting her, etc…

The meal was delicious, even if many of the Dornish and the marchers were trying very hard to stare holes into the skulls of the others.

At the setting of the sun, a clear horn was sounded, and loud, clear and booming cries echoed throughout the city. Delora explained that it was a call to prayer, and many of the Dornish politely left and headed towards the prayer hall of Sunspear. As such, Aredhel and the Royal group were left to their own devices at the end of dinner. Soon enough, Aredhel found herself examining the city and the desert from the balcony of one of the palace's open terraces.

Even as the sun went down, it seemed that Dorne was still enveloped in a blanket of warmth. It seemed as if the deserts spread out endlessly. The city itself seemed more alive at night than it did during the day, with thousands of little firelights dotted all about, leaving the buildings awash in the glow.

Though she knew some of her fellow elves were doing their best to be polite, she could tell that they found the dry heat of Dorne to be strange and uncomfortable. Many of the Westerosi were already sweating and grumbling heavily, despite wearing their thinnest clothes.

Yet, unlike the rest of the Royal procession, she did not find it stifling. It was comforting, oddly enough.

In the distance, she heard the call of an eagle.

"It is a lovely sight, is it not?" came a familiar voice.

Aredhel turned and then moved to one side as Ulrick approached. "Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to intrude," he said, with a bow of his head.

He had changed from his armor into simple, yet still elegant, clothing that was woven from purple and silver and orange and red and gold.

"It is fine. You were not intruding."

He joined beside her on the balcony, with the deserts spreading out under the endless night sky. "My niece is a charming woman, is she not?" he asked.

His niece? "You are related to the Princess?" Aredhel asked.

He nodded. "Indeed I am. My mother was her father's aunt. As such, some call me the knight of Sun and Stars."

"Sun and Stars. And does that make your dark hair and beard the night sky, then?" she asked, with a bit of tease. "And are your purple eyes purple stars?"

He chuckled. "Perhaps, but, compared to your ebony locks and silver eyes, my lady, mine own night sky and stars are but as pale and lacking as dust."

Despite herself, they shared a chuckle at that, as he then too looked up at the night sky, and a comfortable silence grew between them for a while. In the distance, Aredhel heard the sounds of the city's nightlife, of voices and horses and animals and things all going about.

For a while, nothing was spoken, as they both looked up and about.

A warm breeze caressed Aredhel's hair.

"It's a different sort of view, up in the Red Mountains," Ulrick then said.

"Is it any warmer there, in your red mountains?" she asked, a smile on her lips.

He shook his head. "No. But there is more grass and red stone. One can almost get lost within its many valleys, where the grass seems to stretch out endlessly. At night, the air can even grow cool and crisp. Especially at my home of Starfall."

"It sounds lovely."

He nodded. "It is. But to me, it is the stars that are just as beautiful, and just as endless."

It did not escape her notice that as he said this, his purple eyes remained upon her. It was not unpleasant, the feeling of those eyes upon her.

She kept smiling, and he returned it.

Long into the night did they talk, he about Starfall, and she about her home of Gondolin, of her father, and her family.

The next day, Aredhel, Delora, and their various escorts all departed Sunspear for King's Landing. To Aredhel's slight delight, Ulrick would be joining the Princess' guard.

All watched as they would sit and talk with one another.

The White Lady, and the Knight of Sun and Stars. It seemed as if the journey went by in the blink of an eye.

Several days later, they sailed into the harbor of King's landing.

Overhead, Aredhel watched as an eagle flew….

* * *

The Elf-Friend

_The Solar of King Jaehaerys_

_Three Days later_

It should have been awkward. In any other situation, it would have been, perhaps.

His cousin, who was his betrothed (and sister in all but blood), himself, and his other betrothed. All three of them, here, sitting and having dinner of roast pork, quail, read, and vegetables.

It should have been awkward. In the beginning, it had been, the day he and Alysanne met Delora.

Alysanne had been wary of the whole idea in the beginning, and, in truth, he had only gone along with the idea as a way of humoring his Small Council, thinking that the idea would fail.

To his surprise, Alysanne had then quickly taken to the woman who would be her sister-wife and the two became fast friends. It seemed that Delora was as voracious for knowledge as Alysanne, and they bonded over that. Their conversations were oft filled with discussions of history and philosophies, whilst pouring over scrolls and books and treatises. They also bonded over archery and hunting, with the three of them oft going into the Kingswood at times. Delora even taught Alys and Jae a few traditional Donrish dances, activities that would leave them all breathless and laughing, though, were he being honest, Jae was more than just content to watch.

At the moment, as they ate, the two were in deep conversation about the parallels between the customs of the Rhyonar and the First Men. Jae was content to just listen to the two talk.

Jae had been surprised. In any other situation, any normal sort of situation, that sort of thing never happened.

But, then again, they were not a normal family.

Besides, since when were kings and royals ever truly normal?

Outside, off the coast, there was a distant roar of a dragon...

* * *

For almost two months, the entire realm had been abuzz with strange and wonderful news.

A Royal Wedding!

The King was getting married and to two brides none-the-less!

That last bit had confused many, to be honest, but, in the end, who were they to question the will of kings? Though, a scant few whispered that it was the work of those strange elves.

A few amongst the Faith did grumble, but all remembered the Seven Speakers who had walked throughout the land, preaching the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. After hearing it, even the most stubborn of the septons and septas could not truly argue with it. It just made sense.

Besides, when you thought about it, it really did make sense. Who were the Valyrians to be beholden to the rules of Andaldom? The Andals did not ride dragons, but the Valyrians did.

It was mostly the point about the dragons that made the message clear, but so did the rest!

In addition, did the _Seven-Pointed Star _not say that one should not judge, lest ye, in turn, be judged?

Still, while most of this flew over a majority of the common folk's heads on dragon's wings, the Realm was still abuzz.

A Royal Wedding!

Silks were shipped in, the forges and cooks and caravans were running and working and burning and creating day and night!

A Royal Wedding!

* * *

**The Elf-Friend**

_The Red Keep_

_The Day of the Wedding between Jaehaerys Targaryen, Alysanne Targaryen, and Delora Martell._

It was odd, the fact that Jaehaerys felt so nervous.

He had cast judgments of execution upon thieves and rapists and traitors alike without flinching, even as some screamed and cried for mercy and clemency. He had sparred against several knights at once and even faced down a rampaging grizzly while hunting in the Kingswood. All of that, he had faced with very little fear.

And yet, here he was, standing in front of a mirror, dressed up like a black and red peacock, whilst attendants put finishing touches on a cuff and a button and such.

The door to the room then opened. In the mirror, he saw that it was Lord Celeborn, the elf-lord as tall and austere as ever, and garbed in garments of subtle grey and silver, fringed with green to represent his home of Lothlorien.

With a wave of his hand, Jae dismissed the attendants, and soon enough, it was only he and Celeborn.

He turned and held out his arms, letting his robe's sleeves dangle. "I must look a silly thing; a creature of silks and rubies and such. Do you not agree, my Hand?"

Celeborn approached and then, like a mother hen, idly fiddled and straightened out a bit of Jaehaerys' cloak and collar. "I think you look like a young man, on the cusp of one of the most important events in his life that he will ever experience. That is normal. I felt the same at my wedding, so very long ago."

Jae nodded. "Tell me," he said, looking up. "What was it like, when you and Lady Galadriel married, my Hand?"

"Simpler, for one thing," Celeborn replied. "Not as much pomp and circumstance. We were married under the sky and trees, and in the presence of friends and family only."

"That sounds wonderful. Do you suppose that we can just do that, instead?"

Celeborn calmly shook his head. "I'm afraid not, your Grace. A Royal Marriage has to be a spectacle, as much for the realm as it is for the bride and groom. Or, in your case, _brides_ and groom."

Jae chuckled deprecatingly. "Still, any advice for me?"

His Hand sighed, and set his hand on Jae's shoulder. "A marriage is not simply a physical joining; it is a joining between souls. Now and forever, you and your brides will be joined, your destinies entwined. As such… do not treat them with disrespect. Understand that, though a woman may become your wife and take your name, it does not make that woman subservient to you. To think otherwise is nothing short of folly. They will be your partners, your equals, from now until the day you all receive the final Gift of Men."

"Of course," Jae replied.

As he continued to speak, Celeborn put upon Jae's brow his crown. "And above all; trust them, as they will trust you. Love them, as they will love you. Listen to them, as they will listen to you. Be there for them, as they will be there for you."

A knock came on the door, and Russ opened. "Your Grace, Lord Celeborn. It is time."

Jae nodded and took a deep breath for courage.

It was time to be wed.

* * *

The White Lady

Aredhel was seated at one of the pews set up in the massive Throne Room of the Red Keep. Many Lords and Ladies were in attendance as well, with the room seemingly fit to burst. It was a veritable sea of finery and jewels and pomp and peacock-like grandeur. Next to her was seated little Aerea and Rhaella. The latter was fidgeting and looking about, whilst the former was seated quietly.

Their mother was not in attendance. Rhaena hardly ever came to King's Landing.

Aredhel felt a little saddened that none of her kinsmen were able to attend the wedding, save those who had been chosen to attend Jaehaerys and Alysanne back from Beleriand. But alas, the treaty between the Six Kingdoms and Beleriand was still not fully developed, and, until then, travel and trade between the two would remain minimal-to-none.

Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she looked forward.

King Jaehaerys stood at the foot of the dais of the Iron Throne, dressed in finery truly fit for a king, alongside the new High Septon. The King's silver-gold beard was long and thick, whilst his long, uncut silver-gold hair was bound in a single braid down his back, whilst his form, made muscular from his time in the training yards of both Beleriand and the Red Keep, was noticeable beneath his finery. Upon his head rested the simple crown, forged for him in Beleriand, and inset with seven simple gems, each of a different color.

On either side of the dais stood the Royal Guardians, resplendent in their armament and their red-and-black tabards, emblazoned with the Red Dragon and the personal sigils of their houses, and each with hands resting upon their swords, which in turn rested, sheathed, and point down, upon the marble floor. More guarded the entrances and exits. Most noticeable was the tall and solid presence of Maedh- no, _Russandol_, his single hand and stump resting upon the ruby pommel of _Blackfyre_, whilst his two children stood resolutely at either of his sides.

The message was clear to all who understood.

Then, the great hall doors were opened, and all rose to their feet as the brides entered. All who saw them felt their breath but vanish.

Alysanne, slender, beautiful Alysanne, was dressed in black and red silks and lace, matching that of her cousin and betrothed. Upon her shoulders rested a cloak, embroidered with both the seahorse of her mother's house and the red dragon of her father's. Her honey-colored hair was elegantly coiffured, studded with tiny rubies which matched the larger one hanging from a pendant around her neck, as well as the other small ones upon her skirts. Her lips were painted red, while her pale cheeks were lightly dusted with blush.

Next to her, Delora seemed her mirror opposite. Her dusky olive skin was almost radiant, rubbed with oils and such. Her head was bound tightly in a traditional Dornish wedding headdress. Her bridal dress was of radiant gold and orange silks and laces, studded with pearls and opals. Her cloak proudly bore the sun and spear of House Martell. Her lips were painted as well, with dark kohl under her olive eyes that made them seem larger and more appealing. Upon her hands were drawn strange and ancient Rhyonar designs that symbolized good luck, marriage, and fertility.

All watched as the two brides, each as if they were the sun and the moon, approached the dais.

Aredhel watched as Prince Martell removed the cloak from Delora's shoulder, and kissed his daughter slightly upon the cheek, while Celeborn removed Alyssane's cloak, kindness dancing in his eyes. She also saw the Queen Dowager, Alyssa Velaryon, and she was softly weeping.

All watched as new cloaks were placed upon their shoulders, each black and red and emblazoned with only the Red Dragon of House Targaryen.

Aredhel watched as Delora and Alysanne and Jae each looked at one another with full eyes. She watched as Delora briefly touched Alysanne's hand in a comforting gesture.

All watched as The High Septon, a small and unassuming man with a somewhat large head, bound the three's hands together with seven multi-colored laces and strings, forming them into a triangle, all the while murmuring about love and commitment. Coming from the old man, it sounded as if he were just mumbling random things about love and such.

Aredhel's ears could pick up subtle groans of boredom throughout the throne room as the High Septon continued to ramble and mumble.

Finally, he reached the end.

Jaehaerys then turned to fully face his two brides.

All waited with held breath.

Then, the King spoke. "With these kisses, I do pledge my love, for now and all eternity!"

He and his brides kissed one another, and the entire throne room erupted into cheers, as the bells of the Red Keep began to ring, as the High Septon proclaimed them husband and wives.

The king and his brides were now married.

Long live the King.

Long Live the Queens.

* * *

_Later_

The wedding feast, held outside in the Red Keep's main courtyard, consisted of several courses, starting with a savory soup of pumpkin from the Reach. The entire Red keep was filled with chatter, especially the open field.

After the soup came fish and chicken, cooked with spices and herbs and lemon.

Then there was venison and other game, along with cooked vegetables and whole loaves of bread.

Aredhel found it all to be most delicious, as was the wine that seemed to flow as freely as a river. It was Gold from the Arbor of the Reach, and Red from Dorne. There were even a few strong ales from the Riverlands.

Finally, there was the dessert. Pastries, pies, and fruit both fresh and candied. There were also towering cakes, including one crafted in the shape of a three-headed dragon with a spear and sun on its chest, and standing upon a wide base of chocolate, with wings spread. When it was cut into, candied cherries and wine flowed out, as if it were actual wounds.

Many minstrels from all across the land and the Narrow Sea performed during the feast. Harps and flutes and lutes and many other instruments.

As the sun went down, the feasting and carousing continued.

Overhead, the dragons flew in the air, including Jaehaerys' Vermithor and Alyssane's Silverwing, all of which were growing so very large.

Many toasts were given, from many lords and ladies. A most boisterous one was given by Lord Rogar, who sat next to his new bride, Elena of Tarth, a vivacious woman almost as tall as her husband.

Many gits were given to the brides and grooms, including jewelry, armor, saddles, fine swords, dresses, books, bows, and arrows (including a goldenwood bow from House Swann) and many other things.

After the feasting came dancing. Some danced well, and others danced poorly, but all laughed.

Some young lords even worked up the courage to approach Aredhel, and ask for a chance to dance. Not wanting to appear rude, she accepted.

Soon enough, she found herself dancing across from a lord with white and purple knights on his jerkin. His dancing was passable, though his eyes rarely met her face.

Then, a voice cut through. "Pardon me, Ser Farring, but may I request the lady for a dance?"

Aredhel turned, and was met with a familiar pair of purple eyes, set into a familiar face. In the two months since their return to King's Landing, she and Ulrick had had scant few moments to enjoy the other's company, especially as how he had taken up duties as a knight and protector of his niece.

With a smile, Aredhel took his proffered hand, and the two began to dance. His movements were more graceful than the young Farring lordling.

As the music played, the Knight of Sun and Stars and the White Lady danced.

"A very fine ceremony," Ulrick said.

"Indeed. The brides and their groom seem very happy," Aredhel replied.

Up at the high table, she and Ulrick saw the king and his two new queens each laughing at some unheard jape.

Ulrick smiled. "They do seem happy. That is a good sign of a good marriage, I think," he said.

"Indeed."

Then, a great roar came up as the sun finally set below the horizon. "TIME FOR THE BEDDING!" Declared an inebriated lord.

Amidst the laughter of all the guests, Aredhel and Ulrick watched as the King and the Queens were each lifted upon the hands of many men and women and carried off towards the Royal chambers of the Red Keep. The men eagerly disrobed the two queens while the women shrieked with delight as they all but tore the robes off of Jaehaerys.

Most of the guests were involved with the procession of the bedding, and, as such, soon only Ulrick and Aredhel were left, save for a few other guests who had deigned not to go, or were passed out on the floor, or asleep on the table and in their food. Even the musicians had joined the procession as well, all of them singing a strange and ribald song about a queen, a king, a sandal, and a crown.

Ulrick then reached out his hand. "So… shall we continue with another dance?"

Aredhel raised an eyebrow. "You wish to continue dancing, with no music?"

He smiled that smile of his. "Whatever do you mean? I can hear the music just fine. You can too. Listen."

A gentle breeze wafted through the courtyard, and the summer cicadas buzzed and hummed, while crickets chirped. Down below, the rest of King's Landing echoed with life.

When she listened to it all closely… yes, Aredhel could hear a melody more beautiful than any she had heard, since the day her people had returned to this land.

She took his hand and returned his smile.

All through the night, alone did the White Lady and the Knight of Sun and Stars dance, to a melody that only they could hear. As they danced, it seemed as if they could only see the other.

And so, they danced.

Overhead, a blazing star raced across the sky.

* * *

The Elf-Friend

Followed by the ribald cheers and jeers of the wedding guests, Jae stumbled into the Royal bedroom.

He then looked up, to see Alyssane and Delora sat calmly upon the bed.

There they were; Jae, Alys, and Delora. Not even a single stitch was between them.

Jae still could not believe that all three of them were here, now. The two months, when they had all first met, seemed like a lifetime ago, the day that Delora had arrived.

Delora and Alysanne then got up from the bed. Delora walked over to the small table in the room, upon which a pitcher of wine and three goblets sat.

Wordlessly, she filled them, and handed one to Alys and then to him.

With a swallow, Jae raised his goblet. "To marriage."

"To marriage," came the reply, as three goblets clinked.

After emptying his glass, he looked upon his two brides. Not for the first time, ever since he and his sister had met the princess, it struck Jae as how opposite the two women seemed.

Alysanne was somewhat short and slender with small breasts, a narrow waist, and small, pink nipples. Her eyes were like sapphires, and her shoulder-length hair was the color of honey, matching her mound.

Delora was a bit taller and more curved, her breasts and dark nipples larger, her waist wider, her eyes like onyx, and her mound was the same as her dark hair, which tumbled unbound well past her waist.

Like the Sun and the Moon. Both beautiful, both graceful, and yet both were so different.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "So… what do we do now?"

Alysanne shrugged her bare shoulders, the movement simple yet entrancing.

Delora then chuckled, and took both gently by the hand, that simple movement doing interesting things to the rest of her bared form. "Perhaps, the best thing to do would be to start small…"

She kissed him, long and deep. Jaehaerys felt excitement well up inside him.

"And then, if all seems well…" she turned and kissed Alysanne on the lips as well. Despite a moment of surprise, Jae's sister seemed to reciprocate as well.

The excitement grew, especially as it was Jae's turn to kiss Alys.

Delora's smile grew wider, as her hands crept downwards. "Then we go further."

Almost as one, they lowered themselves onto the bed…

* * *

_53 AC_

_A year and a half later_

A year and a half had passed since the Wedding of the Sun and the Moon, and now, the realm was abuzz with excitement for a second time.

A royal progress!

The King and the Queens would be visiting the Six Kingdoms, blessing all they visited with their Royal presence.

More importantly, they would be riding on their dragons!

A royal progress!

Where would they visit? When would they come?

Also, there was another reason for the realm to be excited.

The queens were each heavy with child.

* * *

The Queen of the Moon

Maidenpool was charming, with its pink walls, and its busy harbor.

A great crowd of smallfolk had gathered outside the gates of House Mooten's castle, hoping to get at least a glimpse of Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Delora after they had landed within the courtyard.

Lord Mooten had been beyond grateful that Alys, her sister-wife, and Jae had chosen to grace his lands with their presence, and he practically waited on Jaehaerys and Alysanne and Delora hand and foot, along with their guards and companions.

A cynical part of Alys wondered how much of the kindness was genuine, but, of course, had chosen not to say that aloud.

There had, of course, been several reasons as to why she and Delora had persuaded Jae that they should visit Maidenpool, but there was one reason in particular for Alys's insistence on the location.

Jonquil's Pool, a small body of water famed throughout the whole of the Six kingdoms for its holy and healing properties.

Since she and Delora were both heavy with child, she had felt it prudent that they bathed in the holy waters, so as to ensure blessed and happy births.

Delora, being a believer in the gods of her Rhyonar ancestors, had gently laughed at the suggestion, but had acquiesced none-the-less.

So, today, whilst Jaehaerys went into discussion with Lord Mooten about taxation and levies and such, including the settling of the new Order of the Dragon, Alys and Delora, accompanied by Rosamund Ball, Septa Edyth, Jorelle Santigar, Fyona Fowler, and Aredhel, traveled to the famed pool.

Alys was shaken from her thoughts as their wheel-house arrived at the Pool.

As Gyles Morrigen helped her down, Alys examined the holy place.

The bathhouse was engraved with many depictions of the Seven-pointed star, but otherwise seemed remarkably… unremarkable. More functional than anything else.

The septas who attended and maintained the bathhouse greeted them with kind smiles, though some looked a bit askance at Aredhel, though they made no comment.

Alys did not care, though. Lady Aredhel had been one of her closest friends during her time in Beleriand, alongside sweet Silver-foot, and had felt it only right that Aredhel accompanied her and Del and Jae.

As no men were permitted inside, the Royal Guardians waited outside.

The septas guided Alysanne and her ladies to a poolroom, where there also waited towels and robes to be used and worn after they bathed in the waters.

As they disrobed, Alys looked about at her companions, and especially at Lady Aredhel. Despite herself, Alysanne could not help but feel a bit envious at Aredhel's bared form, at her flat stomach. As she looked, a hand went unconsciously to her belly, now great with child. Why were elves so beautiful?

Alyssane noticed Delora, with her own belly equally large, unabashedly looking upon Aredhel's form with great interest, and despite herself, she chuckled. "Have you grown bored of us already, sweet Del?"

Delora chuckled. "Fear not, my dear Alys. My heart holds only love for you and Jae. Still, if men can look upon flowers every now and then, well, so can I."

Aredhel chuckled at that. "So, are you calling me a delicate flower, Queen Delora?"

"Nothing of the sort, good Aredhel! If you were, then perhaps my Uncle Ulrick would not have become so taken with you!"

To Alys' slight surprise, Aredhel very briefly flushed red, thus making the rest of the little group join in the laughter. Even austere Rosamund Ball, who rarely ever smiled.

Then, as they had finished disrobing, three septas suddenly entered the room.

One of them was a severe-looking woman. "May we help you with anything else, Your Graces?" she asked, though it seemed as if she were spitting out the words.

Alys shook her head. "No, but thank you. We shall be fine."

Despite her dismissal, the septas remained.

Alys rasied a honey-colored eyebrow. "Is there something amiss?"

One of the other septas, a stick-thin woman with a long nose, nodded. "I'm afraid there is, _heretic."_

Then, they each drew a dagger!

As the women gasped in terror, the severe-looking septa then raised her dagger high. "This sacred pool will not be despoiled by the unholy, be they demons, heretics, or abominations of incest! Especially not the line of the monster!"

As the knives flashed and the septas charged forward, Alysanne could do naught but put a hand on her womb, even as Delora pushed her behind her.

Then, before her maids could intercept…. Aredhel moved so fast, and, in the next moment, the nearest of the septas was borne aloft by the elven princess' hand about her neck. That septa, she was then thrown against the stone wall.

_CRACK_

A moment later, she sunk to the floor, her neck broken.

Alys and the others watched and stood with wide eyes and held breaths.

As the remaining septas warily studied Aredhel, the elf-maiden stood tall and great despite her nakedness. Indeed she was almost glowing in the torchlight of the bathhouse. A moment later, the door to the bathhouse suddenly burst open in a shower of wood, and in burst Ser Gyles Morrigen and Nendir of Doriath.

Swiftly, the two Royal Guardians cut down one of the remaining septas in a flash of swords.

With two swords at her throat, the last would-be assassin dropped her dagger and sank to her knees in surrender.

As the woman was bound with strong rope and led away, Alys began to softly weep and felt Delora gently embrace her….

* * *

**The Sorrowful**

_Several days later_

As he set down his harp upon the ground and sat in front of the cell upon a chair, Maglor examined the septa, where she sat chained in the center of the cell. She was a severe-faced woman of average build, the sort who seemed to hold disdain for everything.

Lord Mooten had wanted to execute the septa at once for her attempted crime, but the king, though also wrathful, had stayed his hand, and had called for Maglor to travel to Maidenpool to interrogate her.

The King and Russandol waited outside the castle's cells.

Still, Maglor graced her with a kindly smile. "I bid you greetings."

The master of whispers leaned forward. "Do you know who I am?"

She glared at him. "You are a demon, blind to the true and divine light of the Seven, who works foul magicks upon the true and the faithful, leading them astray into darkness and depravity."

Maglor let the insults wash over him like a lukewarm wave of water. "Very eloquent. Though, I prefer my given name to 'demon.' Now, do you know why I am here?"

"To drag me to your unholy land? To sacrifice me to your heathen gods? Well, I am strong in my faith, and I will not be damned, though you may kill my mortal flesh."

Maglor ignored her. "What is your name?"

"I will not answer that."

"Who else was involved in the plot to murder the Queens and their companions, among whom was High King Fingolfin's own daughter?"

At that, she crossed her shackled arms, her face contorting like a rotting lemon. "Ask your questions, demon. Torture me, if you must. I will say nothing. The Father will judge me kindly for what I tried to do, keep the Pool clean of heresy and taint. Do what you will. I shall not break."

He looked at her for a long moment and then sighed. "I'm not here to break you. Despite what you might believe, I do not condone torture."

He placed a hand upon the harp he had set at his side. "Nay, for I have always preferred the kinder approach."

Even as he said this, the scent of burning ships and screams of death filled his mind, before he filtered them away.

He lifted up the harp and plucked at a single string. As he did, the sound echoed throughout the small room. "You are afraid. That is understandable. But there is no need to be afraid. Listen to the strings, to the melody. Let the melody carry you away…."

He plucked a second string. "Let all your worries just fade…."

With each pluck filling the room with a soothing melody, the woman's severe features began to slowly slacken. Soon enough, she looked as if she had never had a stressful day in her life. Her eyes slowly dilated, and her breathing slowed.

In all honesty, he already knew her name and the names of her conspirators. But, according to the law, there had to be a verbal confession.

Maglor then set the harp back down and interlaced his hands. "Now then…. Let us start this again…."

* * *

Under the power of the music, the septa named several more conspirators, all members of the Faith of the Seven at various levels, along with others.

The conspirators summarily were hunted down, and dragged out into the streets, before being summarily executed, though the innocent were spared.

Russandol the Red and King Jaehaerys made sure that Blackfyre drank well in the following days, though the septa was spared the blade, only to be hung from the neck until dead.

The rope was tied in such a way that it took her a good long while to die.

* * *

**The Elf-Friend**

_The Red Keep, two weeks after the Halted progress_

Following the aborted progress, Jae had thrown himself into helping to draw out the treaty that he and High King Fingolfin discussed, during his seven years in Beleriand.

When he was not helping to forge it, he spent most of his moments with Alys and Delora. Though his Sun and Moon were strong and firm, the attack had still shaken them a bit. Alys was even suffering from the odd night-terror. But now, things were slowly getting back to normal, it seemed.

A knock on the council doors shook him from his thoughts, and, almost as one, he, Lord Massey, Lord Lannister, and Celeborn looked up from their sheets of parchment as Maester Benifer entered, a raven-scroll in hand, and a befuddled expression on his face.

"Grand Maester?" Jae inquired. "What is it?

The Grand Maester held up the scroll. "The most interesting news has just come out of the Reach, it would seem…."

* * *

_In later years, the wedding between Jaehaerys and his queens would be referred to as the Wedding of the Sun and the Moon. Though created under odd circumstances, the polyamorous marriage of Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Delora would prove to be a long, fruitful, and ultimately happy marriage, with the two queens referred to as the Queen of the Moon and the Queen of the Sun, respectively. Of course, as marriages often are, this royal union would not be without its own heartbreaks and dark moments, such as the attempted attack upon the queens when they tried to bath in the Waters of Jonquil's pool, as well as others, down the years. _

_The Wedding of the Sun and the Moon followed half a year later by the great Treaty of Kingdoms (which would be signed under the shadow of the High Tower, as further mentioned in the next chapter) would also help to sow the seeds for the eventual birth of many of Westeros' greatest and famed lords and ladies and heroes._

_It would also, eventually, set the stage for many of the Six Kingdoms' darkest years._

_From the Writings of Archmaester Gyldayn._

_Fire, Blood, Tears, and Wrath; the Entertwined history of House Targaryen, Beleriand, and the Six Kingdoms._

* * *

_Many had been surprised that the king had been willing to forgive those who had risen up against his family. But, it had been a strange stroke of genius, merging the Swords and Stars to the Throne and the Royal Family. Then, having them officially disbanded and reforged into the Knightly Order of the Dragon. On the surface, it kept many of the faithful knights active but leashed and muzzled to an extent._

_Damon Morrigen was even elected as one of the new-forged Order commanders, one of Seven across the Kingdoms. The Former Warrior's Son had been grateful._

_Jaehaerys had stated that, even with a dragon, he still could not be everywhere at once to stop every single evil, and, sometimes, lords could not always be depended upon to fully protect their smallfolk and lands. Which was where the New Order would come in._

_They would be the protectors of the land, of the common folk, no matter their creed or religion. The Faith would defend the souls of the faithful, and the Crown would defend the Faith. But the order? They would defend_ the people_._

_The knights would wear black-and-white armor that bore red scales and a seven-headed dragon, symbolizing their old devotions, and their new ones. _

_It was a bit of a risk, but, thanks to the king's charisma, it seemed to have worked, whilst its name would serve as a message across the realm._

The Dragon will protect you, but it is still the Dragon who rules. Not you

_Like any knightly and chivalric order, the Order of the Dragon would have its heroes and its blackguards..._

_From the Writings of Archmaester Gyldayn._

_Fire, Blood, Tears, and Wrath; the Entertwined history of House Targaryen, Beleriand, and the Six Kingdoms._

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter. Sorry it took so long. My apologies if you find any part of this one lacking, or if you found the jumps through time to be annoying. At this point, I just need it to be finished.**

**The attempted assassination at Jonquil's pool still occurred, even though Jonquil Darke is a Royal Guardian. She simply was not aske to accompny the progress this time. **

**I have changed a few more things about Westeros. For instance, House Swann of the Stormlands are now descended from, and still marry into, many bloodlines of the Summer Isles. Their ancestors were actually settlers from the Summer Isles, back during the era of the Storm Kings. They are famed archers. I did this because a) I thought it would be interesting, and b) it shows how the timeline of Westeros has changed. **

**Also, unlike in canon, here the Manderlys were never ousted from the Reach by the Gardeners. The families were instead joined in blood and marriage. Also, here, Red Rain was never stolen by House Drumm. **

**Tybalt is an interesting character that I have developed, and one who, I will note, actually has a head for economics. It has always struck me as a bit odd how, in the canon series, the Lannister's idea of economics is "I am rich, my gold is endless, and it costs the same everywhere, etc…" which is… odd, to say the least, because that is not how money works at all. **

**As you can no doubt tell, I have decided to give Aredhel, Daughter of Fingolfin, something of a happier life, as opposed to her canon one. There will still be some tragedy, as any such romance entails. **

**As for polygamy… when I read _Fire and Blood_, despite how good a king Jaehaerys I was, he also struck me as being rather selfish. Marrying his sister, while it worked out in the end, was ultimately a stubborn and selfish move borne of what I can only describe as pigheaded short-sightedness. Thus, Celeborn's reasoning is, though strange, ultimately makes sense in my opinion; through the legalese, the polygamy brings Dorne into the fold, and still allows Jae to marry his sister (gross), thus keeping the young king from doing something monumentally stupid. Also, as noted, Celeborn hopes that seeing two different sets of children will allow Jae to understand what the actual dangers of incest are, thus hopefully work to abolish it in the future.**

**The Faith Militant is still disbanded, as in canon, but, because Maegor did not slaughter as many this time, plenty of knights and warriors are still alive. Jae needed to do something with them, as there can only be so many Royal Guardians, and not all had homes to return to. **

**Anyway, I hope you all read, review, and enjoy.**

**The next chapter will probably be a long one and returns to Tolkien's greatest love story. There will be changes, of course, but I will do my best.**

**A/N: Changed Tybalt's name to Tybalt-Tuor.**

**A/N/N: i have changed some plot points, mainly that Alyssane is now Maegor's daughter, and thus Jae's cousin. Also, in chapter 1, i have made Queen Visenya a three-dimensional character. **


	6. Chapter 6

A Song of Rings, Tears, and Wrath Chapter 5. The Voyage to Valyria: There and Back Again

**_The Wanderer_**

No sound could be heard. He dared not move. He dared not to even breathe.

All he could do, all he was able to do, and all he wanted to do, was to stare into those grey eyes, just as they stared into his.

Her song, it had reminded him of a nightingale he once heard, singing in a tree under the moonlight.

He wanted to hear that song again, he wanted to ask her, to beg and plead to hear her song again, to even just hear her speak, to say something… but he could not even speak.

Neither he nor the fair figure moved. Even the very land, the sun, the wind itself? All seemed to hold its breath, all was still as if frozen in ice.

Then, an eagle's cry pierced the air, and the spell was broken. In the next moment, the fair figure turned and fled from him, deep into the sunlit forest.

"Please," he finally said. "Don't go."

He made to follow, to even just reach out, but he still could not move. A strange and cold numbness seemed to creep up through his legs and spine and arms and neck. All he could do, as the world began to spin, was cry out. "Please! Please! Come back!"

As the earth seemed to swallow him up, as the ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and as his voice fled from his throat, he called out one more time. "Nightingale…"

Then, he knew no more.

* * *

**The Nightingale**

She did not speak of what she had seen, though good sense all but demanded that she inform her father, or even just the guards.

Yet she did not.

It was her secret. She had never really kept a secret before. It was odd… but a little exciting.

She did not return to that glade for three days. Then, on the fourth day, she did.

She saw that he lay upon the ground, under the warmth of the sun. It looked like he had fallen.

Though he lay down, the figure had seemed tall enough, about her height. He was garbed in worn leathers and metal rings and things.

Strapped to his back was a sword with a black hilt.

His hair was long and seemed to partially cover one side of his face, which seemed contorted as if he were suffering from an unpleasant dream.

He did not look like any atani she knew in Doriath. Was he perhaps from one of the other kingdoms?

Despite herself, she knelt down by where he lay. He did not stir. She reached out, and, almost on instinct, she pushed back his long hair from the left side of his face.

There were stripes and vines on his cheek.

Before she could stop herself, she started to cup his face…

* * *

_He stood in darkness. _

_ There was nothing but an endless void, all around him._

_ Empty of Light._

_ Empty of Sound._

_ Empty of Hope. _

_ It was just…. EMPTY._

_ He could not speak. _

_ He could not move. _

_ He could not see. _

_ He could not even breathe. _

_ Then.. he heard something. _

_ Weeping. A woman was crying. _

_ That voice… No. _

_ Though he could not move, he raised his hand. _

_ Though he could not see, he looked around in terror and desperation. _

_ Though he could not speak, still he cried out. _

_ "Cerys! Cerys, where are you!?"_

_ He heard, and screamed for, and searched for his sister. Still, she wept. _

_ Still, he could not move, he could not see, and he could not speak. _

_ **"You could not save her, Lot number 971."**_

_The voice was grand and terrible and held within it a fell and mocking edge. _

_ He nearly crumpled to the non-existent floor. _

_ Still, his sister wept. _

_ Still, he reached out numbly, looked around blindly, and cried out breathlessly. _

_ **"She died screaming, your sweet sister, at the monster's hands. She died, and you could not do anything. You did nothing."**_

**_ "_**_No… I, I fought, I tried to…"_

_ **"Did you? What did you actually do?" **_

_ Then, as the weeping gave way to screams, other voices joined, alongside the clashes of steel, and the roars… the roars of dragons. The screams of dying men, dying as they burned. _

_ No. No, not that. _

_ **"You ran, and you were lost. Then, you returned, and joined a fool's cause."**_

_The Screams intensified. _

_ **"The Uncrowned died. He died… and at your hand. You are a failed brother, a failed knight, and a failed son. In the end, all you have ever been… is nothing.**_

_He heard a tiger's rumbling growl. _

_ Flames beat at his face. _

_Suddenly, up from around him, inky hands and claws of black void burst up. Swiftly they began to envelop him, grabbing at him, clawing at him. _

_ He tried to pull away, but they were too strong. _

_ Then, images, flashed before his eyes, each more horrifying than the one before... _

_ …. A garden burning and drowned in blood and bones…_

_ … A bronze sword, fighting against a dark one…_

_ ….Green and Black creatures, rutting against a beautiful, faceless, naked woman, laughing all the while they tore and bit at one another and her, even as all around them burned, and the woman cried and screamed…_

_ … A hammer, ringing out against metal, each blow more baleful than the last…_

_ … Shadows, tearing and biting and stabbing and killing and laughing…_

_ …. Nine fires, each cold and dark and dead on a field of ice and scorched land…_

_ More and more, flashed before him, as the hands pulled him down deeper, enveloping him, and he could only try and pull away in a futile manner. His legs were gone, as the fingers gouged into his eyes and mouth, slowly cutting off his screams. One hand they wrenched down…. _

_ Then, the terrible and fell voice spoke again…. _

**_Nine for the dragons, lords of the sky_**

**_Nine for the dragons, fated ever to die._**

**_Nine shall they wear, _**

**_wrought from precious gold_**

**_And of the Nine, _**

**_shall their legends be_**

**_ in evil whispers told. _**

_ As he screamed and tried to pull away from the darkness, a light burst forth from three distant shapes, shining atop a great and distant tower, cradled in an emerald hand... _

_ The light reached out, in the shape of an arm, extending forth a most gentle hand. _

_ Before his head was fully enveloped, he reached out towards the light. Instead, it rested upon his brow, upon his face…_

* * *

**The Wanderer**

He felt a hand upon his left cheek…

With a sudden gasp and a scream, he shot up off his stomach, twisted, and backed away.

The hand that had been on his brow and face pulled away.

As he looked about, his chest rising and falling in great gasps, he saw the fair vision of beauty that he had seen before.

He could tell she seemed about ready to flee again, and sluggishly, he held out a shaking hand. "Wait! Please, please, don't go. Please."

To his surprise, she stopped, though she still seemed tense.

Could… could she understand him? "I.. don't know if you can understand me, but please… I just want to say thank you. Thank you for that song that I heard you sing. If nothing else, for that I thank you."

Slowly, she looked at him. "You are that grateful for a song, son of man?" she asked in the common tongue, a lyrical accent making every word seem as sweet as honey.

He hid his surprise and nodded. "I am."

He then flushed in embarrassment and scrambled to his feet, for his strength and feeling had returned to his limbs. "Oh, forgive my rudeness. My name is Beren," he said, bowing courteously.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then gently chuckled at his bow. "You have kind manners, Beren. My name is Luthien."

Her voice, it but stole the breath from his lungs. All he could do was just bow again, deeper. "I thank you, my lady, for healing me from whatever strange malady overcame me."

"All I did was touch your brow, good Beren. Nothing more."

"Then, perhaps your hands hold some magic within them, oh great and noble lady."

She looked at him and then gave a soft laugh, like the gentle ringing of chimes. "You are very kind if a bit droll. That amuses me."

Beren smiled. "That gladdens me, that you are amused. Perhaps I may be able to assume you again sometime, great lady?"

Her smile remained. "Perhaps I may very well return. We shall see…"

* * *

She returned the next day, to his surprise, even though he had secretly expected not to.

Every day thereafter, she visited him, in that glade, where he and Strider dwelled.

Sometimes they hardly ever spoke, and instead just gazed into the other's eyes.

Sometimes she sang, and he reveled in her songs as they danced.

At times, they talked, about families and home, though his own heart still ached when he talked of his.

His heart always ached when she left, and it grew light and happy when she returned.

She always brought food and water; fruits and a strange and wonderful bread that made him full from but a few bites. He was grateful, for he could find little to no game in the woods, and his meager supply of hardtack and dried beef had quickly dissipated. Strider, on the other hand, had plenty of plants and oats to eat, the oats being courtesy of Luthien.

For a long while, the glade was as their home… or their prison.

Indeed, for no matter where he and Strider walked, they always found themselves returned to the glade.

But, with Luthien's company… he found that he could not complain.

When she was not about, he practiced his swordplay, with his preferred style; one in each hand.

One night, as stars danced above them, and they danced on the ground, in the heat of the moment… he kissed her.

He had felt ashamed immediately, with a thousand apologies and pleas for forgiveness on his lips, but then...she had smiled, and kissed him back.

When they kissed, he felt complete, a warm and grand feeling suffusing his entire being.

They stayed where they knelt for a long moment, heads pressed against the other.

As the days turned to weeks, and to months, they danced and kissed, and he told her more of his past, the closer they grew, and she always listened with rapt attention. She in turn spoke of her family, of her father and mother and friends and kin, and he listened with rapt attention as well.

"Have you ever grown lonely, all this time alone in your father's kingdom?" he asked, as they sat upon the grass, watching the clouds dance in the sky.

She shook her head, her hair weaving with the motion. "At times, but we elves, we are never truly alone. I've had many friends from my parent's court, elf, and atani alike."

At times, they talked of somber things.

"So why did you fight for this uncrowned king?" Luthien asked one day, her head against his chest, as they watched the stars.

Beren exhaled slowly. "Because I thought it was the right thing to do. We all did, we brave 3,000, and the brave, uncrowned Aegon. It was also to free my older sister, Maegor's first 'wife.'"

He sighed. "We were all brave, I suppose, brave and foolish… but the moment we marched; our deaths were but already sealed. Down came black Balerion, and then… after Aegon's defeat, we were all but like wheat before the scythes of Maegor's forces…. As I said, we never stood a chance."

"Do you regret it?" she asked. "Do you regret taking a stand?"

He looked at her for a long moment at that question. "I don't know."

They talked of little more after that.

* * *

Overhead, the sun shone brightly.

He wondered when she would arrive. He wanted to never be apart from her. It was irrational, but it was how he felt.

He ran his hand across one of the trees of the grove as he waited. The rough bark felt pleasant beneath his calloused palm.

He heard an eagle's cry.

The slight crunch of grass under a boot made him turn.

The last thing he saw was the butt of a spear crashing towards his face….

* * *

When he came to, he was in a cell.

He shot up, to his knees, and brushed straw off his form.

It was a nice cell, though.

He then gingerly felt his forehead and felt a thick bandage.

How long had he been here? More importantly, where was here?

The creak of his cell door opening made him turnabout, so as to witness a small group of well-armed persons march in. At their head was a woman.

The woman was rather solidly squat and thick-necked. Her arms bulged through her sleeves with more muscle then he had seen on most men, though her face was not unseemly to look at. Her eyes were a shiny blue, and her hair was a pale blonde, bound up in a tight braid. She was garbed in studded leather, ring-mail, and a breastplate and greaves and sabatons. Her tabard held the symbol of a pure white star. In her hands was a great spear, and strapped to her back was an equally large sword.

Without a word, she marched, her fellow's weapons already pointed at him, and pulled him to his feet. Wordlessly, they marched him out of the cell.

They walked through a long hallway, and up many flights of stairs. Save for the clinking of their armor, all was silent. They then walked through two doors and emerged into a court.

The court was bright and vibrant, shaped and crafted with wood and shining gems. There were many levels and balconies so that all could see and hear and listen. Each was filled with curious eyes.

All the elves within were tall and graceful, and each was either garbed in simple but rich clothing or clad in shining armor. Even the simplest seemed as richly adorned as a king or merchant prince. But there were also men and women among them, humans like Beren and his guards, clad just as richly. To his surprise, there were also tall, shaggy creatures with well-groomed fur, some clad in pelts, and others in armor as well, and carried great weapons.

Giants, like in the ancient myths.

At the top of the dais upon a throne of metal and wood sat two persons who could only be Luthien's parents, the king, and queen.

The king was the tallest being that Beren had ever seen. He towered over even the giants. Even seating, Beren felt covered by the king's shadow. The King was garbed in silks finer than even those of Myr and Lys, and a fine, gem-encrusted crown rested upon his great head and mane of silver hair. Yet, he looked mightier and greater than any warrior in full plate. Beren noted the muscle beneath those fine silks.

Beren could not help but note that the king could perhaps quite easily crush his head with but one of his mighty hands.

This great figure's wife was no less majestic, if not more so. Her hair was twice as dark as her daughter's, and her eyes were two luminous pools of moonlight.

She wore few adornments, and her gossamer dress, though of rich material, was simple in design. Upon her brow too was a crown, simple in design and yet great in splendor.

Like her daughter, the queen seemed unearthly… divine even. Her expression as she looked upon him was neutral… if also strangely sad and resigned.

Behind them sat Luthien. Her eyes were full of sorrow. Yet, instinctively, Beren knew that she was not to blame.

The guards stepped back. Beren knelt, his knee upon the floor and his head bowed. The king looked down at Beren with eyes the color of liquid silver, the same as his long hair, just a Luthien described.

There was silence for a long moment, and then the king spoke. "So, you are the one who has seduced my daughter," he said, in a mighty, resonant voice, his accent lyrical. "Know that I am Thingol, King of the elves, atani, and giants of Doriath, one of the kingdoms of Beleriand, and the husband of the Lady Melian, who stands above all here. Now, who are you, little man, who would dare so much as look upon our daughter with unworthy and mortal eyes, who would touch her with unworthy and mortal hands? Moreover, how did you even enter into these lands? How did you penetrate the mists, and avoid detection in the other kingdoms?"

Beren looked up upon the king, feeling honest confusion at the last question. "My name is Beren, oh mighty king. and I know not of these mists of which you speak, I swear it. I simply laid upon the grass to sleep one night, and when I woke up… I was here, in these lands, in that forest and I know not how."

The king's noble brow furrowed with disdain as his eyes narrowed. "Do you think me to have a simple mind, oh man of the South? Think you that I am gullible, a naive child who believes all it is told without question? Perhaps you are but a spy, sent from the jealous nations of the south to probe and discover this nation's defenses?"

Beren rapidly shook his head. "No, great King, no. Never would I dare to deceive you at all."

The king looked at him through still-narrowed. "Perhaps you do tell the truth, but tell me; why are you even here, unhappy mortal? Why have you attempted to lay claim upon which is most forbidden to you?"

He loomed closer. "It was only through the kind and leal service of good Daeron, my court bard, that your impropriety with my daughter was discovered. Give me one single reason as to why I should not have my power laid upon you in heavy and righteous punishment for your transgressions?"

For a long moment, Beren could not speak, the pressure of the King's mighty presence weighing down upon him. It almost sent him crashing to the floor.

Then, he caught sight of Luthien. She said nothing, but in her eyes, he saw nothing but love.

That love strengthened him, and he steeled himself.

"It is because I love your daughter, mighty king."

The court went silent at that simple declaration.

"What?"

Beren continued, a strange bravery filling his being. "I swear to all the Gods, to the four winds and all the seas, all the lands east and west of the sun, that I hold within my heart only love for fair Luthien, fairest of all in any land, fairest of all the Children of the World. I love her more than life itself, and I loved her the moment I first lay eyes upon her in that glade, and twice so when she pulled me from that unnatural slumber.

"All I know, all I feel… is that My fate, O King, led me hither, through perils such as few even of the Elves would dare. And here I have found what I sought not indeed, but finding I would possess forever. For it is above all gold and silver, and beyond all jewels.

"As such, I swear to you, oh mighty king… I swear to you and your noble wife that I will do anything so as to prove my love, unworthy as it may be, to you and to fair Luthien, though it may cost me my life and my very soul. But know that, even were you to separate us, then I swear that I would travel across all the ends of the world to get back to her because I love her, your Majesty. I love Luthien, your daughter."

He then dared to look up, straight into the king's mighty and ageless. "My name is Beren of the House of Hightower, and I love Luthien. I love her, and I will love her until past the very end of time, even past the stars themselves growing cold, no matter what may come or may yet be. This, I do swear here before the sight of all who would witness. I love your daughter, and I shall do anything to prove it."

As the last of his declaration left his lips, Beren felt that he would but collapse from weariness. Yet, he stood tall.

The elven king looked down upon him in stunned silence, a silence shared by the entire hall.

A single tear traced down the Lady Melian's fine face, and the sound of it impacting against the marble floor ushered sound back into the court.

The king's face then grew grave and somber, and he shook his head, as if in disbelief at Beren's words. "Such a heady oath that you have uttered, son of man. Such oaths tend to bring naught but ruin upon their utterance. Yet, are you truly prepared to keep this oath of your, no matter what may come?"

Beren nodded. "I am."

The king looked about his court, looked at the shocked faces of all in attendance, and looked towards his wife. An unspoken conversation passed between their eyes, and then he turned away from her. "You have all borne witness to this mighty oath, uttered from his lips, oh subjects of Doriath and Beleriand. Whether it was foolhardy or grand, then that has yet to be seen."

He then sat back down upon his great throne and set his eyes back upon Beren. "Very well. If you would have my daughter's hand in marriage, Beren of the Hightower, if you truly love her as you so claim then hear me; to fulfill this oath which you have uttered, then I charge you to travel to a land which none have dared to tread in over a hundred years. I am sure you know that land of which I speak."

Beren slowly nodded. "Valyria." As he spoke that word, a cold chill seemed to echo through the chamber.

"Indeed. You must travel to that dread land, and return with proof of your journey. Attempt no falsehoods with me, for your heady oath has bound you and your fate to this quest, and to the truth."

"However, you will not find me wholly unmerciful, son of the Hightower. You shall be provisioned with what you think you will require, and set out on a ship towards the eastern continent. From there, you will be set out in a dinghy, and then your path to those cursed lands will be your own. This is my decree."

The court became abuzz with noise as the king sat back down upon his throne. "What say you, son of the Hightower?"

Beren looked upon the king for a long moment. It took all the steel in his spine to keep his hand from shaking. Essos.

He would have to return to Essos.

The scars upon his back began to ache….

He looked up, and then looked at Luthien. She looked back at him.

Beren then spoke. "For your daughter… I would brave a thousand Valyrias, Your Grace."

Thingol gestured. "Very well, though we shall see if your mettle is as strong as your words. Escort him to his belongings, and then to the dockyards. He shall leave within the next two days."

* * *

As the atani guards marched him out, they were briefly waylaid by another elf. "A moment, if you would, captain Jorelle. I wish to speak to this human," said he, ina strong voice

"Of course, Lord Beleg," the captain said, with a bow of her blonde head.

This elf's hair was a pale grey, drawn back in a simple ponytail. He was clad in an armor of chain and green and brown leathers. Slung across his back was a great and mighty bow of black yew-wood, no doubt for the full quiver of arrows at his side.

Unlike many of the others, his face did not carry much haughtiness or disdain. Indeed, his hazel eyes seemed rather warm.

"I bid you greetings, Beren Hightower. My name is Beleg, Beleg Strongbow, and I wish to help you in your quest to Valyria."

That had not been what Beren had been expecting to hear at all. "…You do?"

He nodded. "Indeed. Your oath and declaration in the court… it moved me. As such, if I did not help you in your quest, then I would truly regret it for the rest of my life."

He then held out a hand. "What say you?"

With a rueful grin, Beren took the proffered hand. "I will not say no to assistance, Lord Strongbow. I thank you."

"Splendid. I shall meet you by the dockyards. May our journey be grand and fruitful."

Beren certainly hoped so, the memory of Luthien's sorrowful eyes fresh in his mind.

Indeed, he hoped it would be.

* * *

_Three days later_

Elven ships were swift, it seemed. It cut and sped through the water like a leviathan. Beren could not help but be amazed at the speed of the grey ship as it all but glided over the waves.

It had only been three days, but, as the sun began to slowly set upon the third day, he could already see off the horizon the edge of Essos from where he stood.

As the anchor was dropped, the ship's first mate, a brown-haired atani woman named Jara approached Beren and Beleg. "From here, you shall be rowed ashore, my lords. For what it's worth, we wish you luck in this quest of yours."

"I thank you for that," Beren said, as he checked over his equipment, from his boots to his bracers, his harnesses, and his two swords at his side, and the daggers on his back. To his slight sorrow, he could not bring Strider along on this journey. But alas, horses did not journey well over the sea.

Beleg nodded and then turned to address the crew. "Before we leave, I offer this invitation one last time; any who wish to join us on our quest now is more than welcome. Will anyone step forward, so as to help noble Beren in his quest?"

All were silent for a moment, and then two elves stepped forward. "We shall," said one, in an even voice.

They were two elf warriors; one red-haired, and the other brown-haired. Other than that, they seemed… unremarkable.

In fact, the more Beren looked upon them, the less he could actually focus on their features.

Odd.

Beleg narrowed his eyes but smiled. "Well met, kinsman! Your help shall be most appreciative."

The red-haired elf nodded, whilst the brown-haired one said nothing.

Nothing more was said as the four were loaded onto the small dinghy. Nothing was said as they were rowed ashore.

It was a small beach, with the entrance to the forest right at the edge of the sand.

As they watched the elven ship then sail away, Beleg turned to their two new companions. "A most impressive bit of disguising, but now the coast is clear… my lady."

Their forms shimmered, and, in place of the two elf warriors, it was… Luthien and the squat female atani guard.

The elf maiden was dressed in supple leathers and chain, like Beleg. Unlike her companions, her weapons were odd. Clasped in her hands was a great quarter-staff, both ends capped off with shimmering steel. Dangling at her waist was a sling and a great pouch of pellets.

The atani guard carried her spear, her sword, and a short bow and quiver full of arrows.

"How are you even here?!" Beren exclaimed.

Luthein stood tall. "A glamor, as taught by my mother. Do you honestly believe that I would let you face this journey alone, _melnā_? Besides, I am trained in combat. All elves are. In addition, Jorelle here is my protector. She goes anywhere I am, and is also trained to fight."

"But this journey… it will be dangerous! Essos is a land that practices slavery! That by itself equates to great danger!" Beren exclaimed. He then turned to Beleg. "Were you aware of this?"

The tall elf nodded with a gentle smile. "I was. As a soldier and lord of Doriath, I am sworn to the house of Thingol." Then his smile turned slightly sly. "As such, when a member of the royal household asks that I help her sneak into this journey, why, I can do naught but accept."

Beren sighed and scratched at his head in exasperation. He could tell that he would not conquer this argument. Besides, having more companions would make this journey more bearable. He then held out his right hand with a gentle smile. "My lady? Shall we be off?"

"Indeed, we shall," Luthien said, as she took his hand.

As the sun did set beyond their sight, off the small group went, into the shadows of the great forest.

* * *

The forests of Qohor were exactly as Beren had remembered; thick with golden trees, each as large as a city gate, and they stretched on for miles, seeming without end.

As they made camp under the shadows of the trees and made a fire, Beren unfurled his map of Essos from a scroll in his pack. "It will take roughly three weeks for us to make our way through this forest, especially as we are on foot. From there, we cross over the River Sarne and through the Dothraki sea, hopefully over some of the Valyrian roads, around and over the Painted Mountains, and then, we'll have reached the Lands of Eternal Summer, the landbound portion of the Valyrian Peninsula."

"A long journey ahead of us, it would seem," Beleg said, as he examined the human map.

"Indeed," Beren agreed. "A very long journey."

"What sort of dangers might we encounter?" Luthien asked.

"The worst kind," Beren said. "The kind that walks on two legs, and thinks itself superior to all other things."

Not much more was said after that dark proclamation, and the only sounds were those of the crackling fire, the forest at night… and the sound of Jorelle running a whetstone over her sword and large spear.

Sleep was fitful that night.

Jorelle made sure to be visible between Luthien and Beren as they all slept.

* * *

_The next day_

They rose early and started off south. They had little in the way of conversation. Beren noticed Beleg and Luthien looking at the great trees in admiration. He also felt Jorelle's eye boring into his back.

The dirt beneath their boots crunched softly, while the sunlight filtered through the great branches of the forest.

_"Halt!" _Came a voice in Qohorik.

Almost immediately, Beleg nocked an arrow to his bow, as hoofbeats echoed around them. A small group of riders came into view around them

They were surrounded.

The riders were Qohorish, as evidenced by their pale skin and gaunt features. They were garbed in leathers and armed with bows and longswords. Their leader wore a plumed helmet, and a breastplate enameled with the Black Goat.

_"In the name of the Black Goat, identify yourselves!" _The leader demanded.

_"Greetings," _Beren called out in their tongue. _"We are but simple travelers, mere wanderers, making our way through this fine forest. We mean no harm, and will be on our way shortly." _

The leader looked them over and then chuckled derisively. _"Mere travelers, you say? You are well armed and armored, for 'mere' travelers."_

Shit.

The leader looked at Luthien, and Beleg, and smirked, as he and his followers dismounted. _"Indeed, such pretty travelers. You are trespassing through our forest. Trespassing is a crime. And in Essos, the punishment for trespassing is servitude… especially if you are pretty."_

He gestured to his men, and the one nearest to Beren pulled out a set of manacles. _"Take them. But keep their faces untouched."_

Shit.

As the qohorik soldier reached towards Beren, the Hightower scion breathed out, and palmed the thin razor in his hand.

A moment later, the razor found itself through the soldier's eye.

Everything then erupted into chaos at that moment.

The rest of the riders and soldiers charged forward. Blood had been spilled, and violence now saturated the air. Several riders fell two the ground, arrows sprouting from their chests. Beleg had hardly seemed to move. Beren's dark blade flashed from its sheath on his back, alongside the one at his side, and they danced and bit in a flurry of blood.

Jorelle's spear flashed and cut, the heavy edge nearly removing a soldier's head from his shoulders in one cut.

A man who tried to grab at Luthien found his head bashed to the side by the end of her quarterstaff.

Beren saw one fighter backing away in terror, and mounting his horse. "Beleg!' he exclaimed, gesturing towards the rider as his steed started to gallop away.

Beleg aimed, breathed, and then released.

The arrow zoomed through the air, and punctured through the rider, erupting from his chest in a shower of blood.

A moment later, Beren severed the leader's head clean from his shoulders.

For a long moment, there was not a further bit of movement, no further sounds. Even the forest itself had gone quiet.

Beren wiped at the blood from his face.

He then looked at his companions, at Luthien.

She upon the end of her quarterstaff, and at the prone form of the qohorik man at her feet. The elf-maiden then let loose a long sigh. Her guard gently patted her upon her shoulder.

The elf-maiden then looked up, and she and Beren's eyes met.

There was nothing to be said at the moment. There was nothing that _needed _to be said. He could see the wary determination in her eyes. He nodded at her.

Beren then looked to the horses.

Well, at least there would be no need to walk.

* * *

**_The Strongbow_**

Instead of a month, it only took three weeks to leave the forest with the horses. Though they were not from any of the equine bloodlines of Beleriand, Beleg found their current steeds to be hardy and well-behaved creatures. His own was a strong roan with long features. The rest of the horses that they took, they plied with supplies taken from the dead humans.

For the rest of the three weeks, they had encountered no more soldiers.

The sight before them was a rather awe-inspiring thing. A great river, filled with shining, crystal-clear water. On the other side, there seemed endless swathes of grass and steppes and hills.

It was an inspiring sight.

Beren cleared his throat. "We should stop here for a bit. Refill our water, perhaps clean ourselves up and freshen the horses. We won't get many chances afterward."

The women went first, with Beleg and Beren staying a respectful distance away with their back turned.

* * *

**_The Nightengale_**

The water felt refreshing on Luthien's skin. After three months in her leathers, it was quite a pleasant sensation.

"Let me wash your back, my lady," Jorelle said in her soft voice.

"Thank you."

"You did not have to come with me, Jor," Luthien said, as her guard washed the dirt and grime from her back with a solid hand and cloth.

Jorelle grunted. "On the contrary, my lady; where you go, I go as well. That is part of the oath my line swore to you and your father, upon the day of your birth. I have no intention of being the first to break it," the warrior-handmaiden replied. "Though, I do still think this is but full and foolish folly. All this, and over a man. Not even an atani, but one of those barbarians from beyond the southern borders."

"Be nice, Jorelle," Luthien gently chided. "And this is not folly. It is difficult to explain, but the moment I saw him, in that glade… the moment our eyes met… I felt as if all was right in the world. For that, I would follow him anywhere. Besides, I'm not one to sit on the sidelines. You know this."

Jorelle _hmphed_ at that, the sound like a low rumble from her muscled throat, but said nothing more.

* * *

**_The Strongbow_**

Once the lady Luthien and her guard had finished, it was Beren and Beleg's turn.

As they disrobed and discarded their tunics and leathers and armors on the bank, Beleg looked up… he could not stop the gasp of sadness and horror from escaping his lips at Beren's bared flesh. It was an unexpected sight.

The last he had seen the physical marks of such cruelty, it had been in the War of Ice and Fire…

Beren's torso bore an impressive array of tattoos and scars, including what looked like burn marks on his right arm. On the entirety of his left arm, trailing from the back of the middle joints of his fingers, and up to his cheek, were the filigree of long, thorny green vines and roses and leaves.

But the human's back… it was covered in a multitude of green stripes, like those of a hunting cat's, the same as on his face, interlaced with the vines and leaves. He was covered from the top of his neck to the small of his spine. There was practically no visible flesh left.

The human caught Beleg staring, and he sighed. "In Volantis, the monster who owned me, he preferred his slaves to look beautiful. As such, he only whipped their backs. Then, he always covered each whip-scar on his slave's back with a tiger's stripe, in deference to his party, the tigers. If you were disobedient, you "earned a stripe." As you can see… I earned many stripes. As for the rest… the Reach is known for its plants and flowers, and he decided that I should bear a permanent reminder of my roots."

"How… How long did you endure this for?" Beleg asked, his mind struggling to comprehend what he saw.

Beren was silent for a long moment. "…Three years too long. Up until the moment when I escaped."

The two males bathed in silence, the grime and grit sifting away from their forms.

It felt nice.

* * *

_Later_

**_The Wanderer_**

They crossed over the Sarne in a shallow area. From there, they headed onto the Dothraki sea.

For miles around, they could see nothing but the grass and steppes of the Dothraki sea. At times, they passed the burnt wrecks of towns and fortresses and such, remnants of the Century of Blood. If one listened closely, you could almost hear the screams and the sounds of hoofbeats and jingling bells.

For the most, Beren and Luthien rode at the front, with Beleg and Jorelle bringing up the rear.

The companions hardly ever truly talked. What was there to be said?

Beren hated this continent. Nay, it was safer to say that he despised it. He loathed it for the horrors he had endured, and the memories of his time spent here.

Luthien clearing her throat shook him from his musings. "Beren."

He looked up at her and smiled. "_Tinúviel_."

She looked at him, and, though she returned his smile, her grey eyes studied him intently. "You hardly have told me of your time here on this continent, back in the glade. Why?"

He looked around at the grasslands about them and sighed. "Because some of my lowest moments in life happened here, on this wretched continent. I was a sellsword… and a slave. I was a slave for three years in that most wretched of the Free Cities; Volantis. I was treated as a thing, a possession, and I was even marked as such. My master… he was not kind. None of his family… were kind. It only cemented my hatred of this continent… and my fear of it."

Pity crept into her eyes. "Then why accept my father's decree? Even with your oath, you had a right to refuse. Why return to a place that holds such horrid memories for you?"

Beren looked back at her, love in his eyes. "Because you are worth hell, Nightengale. For you, I would brave a thousand Valyrias, and ten lifetimes of nightmares. Even an eternity of slavery. For you, I would endure anything. I knew it, the moment I saw you, in that glade."

A moment later, Luthien reached out and gently grasped his hand. They held each other's hands tightly.

They continued on in silence. But this silence was not oppressive.

* * *

**_The Horselord_**

This had been a good day.

The sounds of the weaklings screaming out was ever sweet to the ears of Khal Tagko. As was the woman he was mounting, one hand tight on her hair and the other clutching her breast, her cries only making him harder as he kept thrusting into her, over and over. The motions made the bells in his braid sound out a lusty melody.

By the red stallion, this was grand!

With a grunt he emptied inside her, laughed, and pushed her to the ground. He laughed as some of his blood riders then started taking her as well, one behind her and one in her mouth.

This had been a fine raid.

As he laced up his breeches and stood, his right-hand blood-rider, Akko, signaled to him. "Great Khal!"

"Blood of my blood. What news?"

As he approached, Akko's large vulture landed upon one of his large, hide-bound shoulders. Akko had been bred by the Great Masters to have to gift of the bound-sight, as well as his great height and strength. Tagko was proud to have the animal-touched serve under him.

"My winged brother has returned with tidings, great Khal. A most interesting prize has emerged from the forests of Qohor. They currently travel over the Dothraki sea, and are but a day's ride from here."

"Who are these travelers?"

"They seem like sunset-landers. But one of them… even through my bond-brother's eyes, she seemed most beautiful. Her hair darker than night, and her flesh smooth, almost begging to be touched. It is odd though, but her ears… they are pointed, as were the ears of one of the other travelers."

At the woman's description, Tagko's cock twitched. "Pointed ears, you say?"

"Aye, and that stirs a memory. One of the merchants we captured and sold a moon back, he told tales of a beautiful race that lived across the sea. 'Elves,' they are called. We should capture them, they might make good offerings to the Masters, alongside the others?"

Takgo stroked his chin and then clapped Akko on his bare shoulder. "Aye! Let it be so. Rouse the khalsar! Have the slaves gather everything up! We ride for these travelers!"

* * *

**_The Strongbow_**

As the sun rose on a new day, the four continued on their way, after stopping briefly by a small lake. It was a bright day above them, nary a cloud in the sky.

Above, Beren spied a large bird, lazily circling in the air.

Odd.

"This is a quiet day," Beleg noted.

"There's been plenty of quiet days," Beren said.

"Is that not a good thing?" Beleg asked.

Suddenly, in the very corner of his hearing, Beleg's ears picked up a sound.

A low rumbling. The ground itself began to shake.

It seemed to be coming from the east.

Then, Beleg saw that Beren recognized the sound, and the human's eyes widened in fear.

Hoofbeats!

"Hurry! We must fly!" Beren suddenly shouted. "It's the Dothraki! We must flee!"

Without question, the four urged their mounts into a speedy gallop.

Behind them, the rumbling grew louder as, in the distance, the first of the riders crested the hill. Soon enough, the hills became covered, as a corpse swarmed by ants. The thunder of the hoofbeats was beyond deafening.

Beleg whispered to his mount in the tongue of qenya, a language that all the beasts of the wilds instinctually knew, whether tamed or free. "_Noro lim, noro lim!"_

At that, he let go of the reins, guiding his mount only with his legs. He then reached for Belthronding, and withdrew an arrow from his quiver.

As his horse kept speeding forward, he twisted, aimed, and released.

* * *

**_The Horselord_**

Takgo looked in surprise as the arrow sped clear through quick Ollo's head, sending the blood rider off his horse, and leaving his body to be trampled by the rest of the khalasar.

He would be remembered.

But this prize… it would be worth any sacrifice.

They were closing the distance.

To his right, Goro raised up his own recurve bow, pulled back on the string with his powerful arms and fired, thus sending the arrow speeding off.

A moment later, one of their prey's horses fell.

* * *

**_The Wanderer_**

Even as his horse careened to the ground with a scream, Beren rolled to his feet with a grunt, his dark blade at the ready. The others kept riding on, followed by his shouts for them to keep going.

The horde drew closer, and a rider screeched towards him, the bells on his braid tingling. The man's arakh flashed in the sun.

Beren's sword flashed as he leaped and slid to the side. The edge bit, and the horse was sent crashing to the earth in a cloud of blood, while its leg went in the opposite direction. The rider was crushed beneath its bulk.

But more were coming.

A red haze settled over Beren's eyes as he started to flash and cut. He even screamed as he became surrounded. He felt positively drenched in the red liquid.

A moment later, a whip coiled around his neck, snapped tight and sent him flying backward off his feet.

As he struggled, a large man stood over him.

The man must have been the khal, and then Beren felt a great kick to his stomach.

Beren's head rolled to the side and he saw, to his horror, Luthien and the others become quickly surrounded.

He was then dragged roughly to his feet, his hands bound and divested of his sword and visible weapons. In the distance, he saw his companions being given the same treatment.

The hulking Khal took up Beren's dark blade, and looked over it with an appraising eye, and belted it to his waist.

* * *

**_The Horselord_**

Tagko laughed as the new prisoners were brought before him. His eyes lingered on the fair beauty, though she stared back at him unflinchingly.

Already, his loins ached for her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever clapped eyes upon, even among all the women and slaves he had ever taken.

But, a prize like this… she needed to be brought before the Great Ones first. Then, he hoped, she would become his.

Still, he grew hard beneath his britches.

He gave a nod, and the four were led away. He then turned to Akko. "Send word to the Masked ones; tell them of our great prize, and to meet us a day's ride from here. I think they will be most pleased."

Akko nodded. "It shall be done, blood of my blood."

* * *

**The Wanderer**

Beren, Beleg, Luthien and Jorelle were roughly thrown into a large cart. Beren still felt dazed from the blow to his stomach, as well as a few others the Dothraki had gifted him. From the looks of things, they had done the same to Beleg and Jorelle. Thankfully, Luthien seemed unarmed. But, from what Beren knew of the Dothraki, that was not a good sign.

"You lot gave them a good little chase, eh?"

It seemed they were not the only occupants in this cart. A man and a woman also lay within, bound as they were.

The woman was wiry and clad in simple leathers. Her skin and hair were nut-brown, covered in small scars, and her eyes were different colors; her right was black and the left a most startling blue, so pale that it almost blended in with the rest of her eye.

She looked over all of them with her strange eyes. "You lot look like you're from the West. My name is Bella. Bella of Braavos."

She gestured with her bound hands to her hulking companion, a tall, grey-skinned man rippling with as much muscle as Jorelle, and with every inch covered in scars and burns, save for his face, into which were etched tattoos in the shape of flames. His hair was long, and bound in thin braids. "This here is Vario. He's not much of a talker. Isn't that right, Var?"

The big man grinned, distorting the flame tattoos on his grey face, and then opened his mouth. To Beren's horror, the man had no tongue. It looked as if it had been crudely ripped out.

"What are you doing here?" Beren asked.

The woman shrugged. "They had been after us for a while. I and Var had killed some of these savages' khals. Seems they want revenge. As such, we have been given a 'great' honor. We're going to be taken to the horse-fucker's holy city. From there, there'll probably be all sorts of horrors awaiting us, or at least me, because these fucks think with their cocks."

She looked at them all with her mismatched eyes. "I guess the same could be said for all of you."

Well… that was not morbid at all.

"You seem rather… nonchalant about all of that, good lady," Beleg noted.

"Well, as it so happens, we are planning to escape," Bella said.

Beren noted that she did not seem surprised by Beleg and Luthien's appearances.

The elven archer raised a fine brow. "Is that wise, speaking of such things so openly, surrounded as we are by our captors?"

"Pah! These barbarians never speak any language but their own. Think anything else is beneath them. So, as I was saying, we're planning an escape."

"Then what's kept you from escaping?" Luthien asked.

"We simply have lacked what any great plan requires, pretty lady," Bella said. "A distraction."

Beren looked around at all the copper-skinned horsemen, as his mind flitted through all he remembered about the Dothraki.

"I think I have a way to get your distraction," he said.

Bella and the rest leaned forward. "I'm listening…"

* * *

As the sun began to set, the khalasar slowed to a halt, and the slaves began to set up camp. Beren noted the hulking Khal ride up to their cart, eyeing Luthien lecherously.

Time to act.

Beren leaned forward. _"What is your name, oh Khal?"_

The Khal looked away from Luthien and turned towards Beren, surprise on his mustachioed face. _"You speak the true tongue?"_

_"Aye. I know enough of your mongrel tongue. I've killed enough of you to pick up a few words here and there. What is your name?"_

The Khal's eyes narrowed, and he rode up to the cart and backhanded Beren across the face. _"A glib tongue, sunset-lander. Perhaps I should have it taken out? I am Khal Takgo." _

Beren spat out a bit of blood and chuckled. _"Takgo. A fine name… for a murderous, raping piece of filth Dothraki like yourself. Attack a man who cannot defend himself. Such is the great Dothraki way is it not? Such is their bravery, that they can only truly fight defenseless shepherds and women and children. I quiver beneath your grand might. But of course, put Dothraki before a force of actual soldiers, and they piss their breeches and flee on their ponies, mewling back to their steppes like piglets, gasping for the suck on the sow's teat!" _

The Dothraki's brow furrowed in anger. Around them, many of the other Dothraki were listening in on the conversation. _"Is there a point to your babble, fool?"_

Beren met his gaze without flinching. _"Aye. If I am to die, then I at least wish to die on my feet, fighting. As such, I wish to fight you. Surely, you would not deny me this last request?" _

The Khal burst into laughter at that, his muscled chest rising and expanding with each guffaw. _"And why should we listen to you, sunset-lander?"_

Beren then leaped off the cart, making all the Dothraki bristle. Before any of them could move, he lifted his bound hands and pushed his hair back, revealing to all the green tiger-stripes and vines etched over the left side of his face, from his nose and down his cheek, and over his brow and disappearing into his scalp. _"Because I'm the one who killed the great Khal Drazo" _he said._ "I killed the stallion who would mount the world." _

The Dothraki all began to murmur amongst themselves at the sight of the stripes on his face. _"The green tiger," _said the hulking Khal, almost afraid.

_"That is correct,"_ Beren said to the shocked Dothraki. _"I decimated the great khalasar of Drazo in one night. I crept into his camp, and I gutted your messiah like the pig that he was, that all Dothraki are. He wept the tears of a woman-child as he held his guts in his hands, as his piss soaked the ground, as his excrement left his bowls, and as I severed his braid and his head from his shoulders. Is that not a good enough reason, Takgo? So here I am. Now, you have a good chance to kill the demon who slaughtered your chosen one, and become a legend." _

Beren then smiled. _"Or are you too afraid, like the child who hides his face in his mother's bosom, scared of his own shadow? Perhaps you should have a woman kill me instead, for she would be braver than you, a murderer of children and rapist of defenseless Lhazareen-"_

_ "Enough!" _Khal Takgo bellowed his face as red as the evening sky.

All around them, the Dothraki khalasar began to murmur louder. The Khal's hands were tight at his side. _"Very well," _he bellowed. _"If the demon wishes to die fighting, that so it shall. All will watch as I, Khal Takgo, avenge the murder of the great Drazo!" _

He then took up Beren's dark sword. _"And I will do it with the demon's own dark blade!"_

* * *

The Dothraki all gathered around a makeshift arena in the camp.

Surprisingly, they had unbound his hands and had gifted him a curved arakh. If his hands had been bound, it would have been a sign of fear. He gave the weapon a heft and a few experimental strikes. He had fought with one before, in the disputed lands, though he liked the blade not.

Ta came sauntering forward, Beren's blade shining in his hand. Beren could immediately tell that the khal had no idea how to truly use the longsword.

Perfect.

As Takgo stepped forward, Beren could tell that the Dothraki outweighed him by at least two or three stones of pure muscle and bulk. He was big, and there would be power behind his blows, no doubt.

With what he thought must have been a heroic bellow, Drazo lumbered forward and swung.

Beren ducked under the khal's blow, his stolen blade hissing through the air.

The voice of Beren's old master-at-arms sprang into his mind as he dashed to the side. He could almost see the old, one-legged woodsman and hedge knight, sitting on his habitual stump, the hint of a little wooden figurine in his hands. _"If your opponent is bigger and strong than you, lad, then you cannot rely upon strength. The best you can do is make sure you're faster than they are. Speed will be upon which the bout will be made or broken. Stay quick on your feet, fight smart, and, most importantly…"_

Beren feinted, and then flashed his arakh. Takgo then gained a thin red line on his chest.

_"Bleed them down with small hits. Be that annoying hornet that you can't swat down."_

Blood rested on the arakh's edge, as it then quickly bit and pushed against the dark blade, and at a point in the middle of the curve…

* * *

**_The Nightengale _**

There was only a small group of Dothraki guarding them. They were even holding their weapons. The rest were all watching her Beren fight their leader.

"Well, then… shall we?" Bella whispered under her breath as she finished severing their bindings.

"Indeed," Luthien said, as she quietly massaged her wrists.

It was time to leave.

With a silent nod, the giant Vario then reached forward with his long arms… and with a single twist, snapped the neck of the nearest guard with a sickening _crack_.

Jorelle swiftly leaped and tackled the other guard to the ground, and slipped a hidden dagger between the Dothraki's armpit and into his heart. He died without a sound.

It all happened in less than three seconds.

The rest of the group descended from the cart and divested their captors of their weapons. As Luthien retrieved her quarterstaff and sling, she watched as their new companions took up their own; for Bella, a thin blade with a basket hilt and several thin daggers; for Vario, a massive, double-headed ax that bore imagery of flames, as well as a few bandoliers that carried long, thin cylinders.

"So, what is our next step?" Beleg asked as he strapped his quivers to his waist and back.

Bella grinned mischievously, her teeth a startling white. "Well, that rests on Vaar's big shoulders. He knows how to make things… explode."

Vario held up on of the cylinders and grinned as well.

* * *

**_The Green Tiger_**

Beren had been dancing and dodging and cutting around the Khal for what felt to be a long time, could have only been minutes. After every cut, he made sure to give the illusion of parrying, making sure that his loaned blade nicked against his true blade in a specific area, near the middle.

Small, tiny cuts littered the khal's form; tiny lines of red against his coppery, tattooed chest and arms. The big man was panting and grunting like a tired bull, but his copper face was red with anger and embarrassment.

While that was slightly terrifying, that was also good. The angrier your opponent became, the less they were to think things through.

He glanced a look at his blade, barely a second of a second; the nick seemed deep enough.

He took note of a nearby horse, still saddled and standing idly, its reigns held loosely in its dismounted owner's grip.

He also took note of a small stream of smoke in the south-western part of the camp.

Time to end his part, it seemed.

The khal roared and took hold of Beren's true sword in both hands. "_Stand still and die, demon! Murderer!" _He then lumbered forward and swung the sword in a great overhead swing. Beren dashed forward and slightly to the side, and struck upwards with his sword, with all his might… upon his true blade's edge with his arakh.

All the Dothraki, including Tagko, gaped stupidly as the arakh shattered into almost two clean fragments.

Luckily, there was still enough of a length left attached to the hilt, as well as the fact that the lack of resistance drew Tagko downwards from the momentum alone.

That was all Beren needed.

Before Tagko could react, Beren dove low and jabbed the remnants of the arakh into the side of the big man's knee. As the Dothraki khal roared in agony, dropping Beren's sword in shock and pain, Beren smashed his fist against the man's head, took up his true blade, and then rammed the hilt against the khal's shoulder and temple with all his might. The big man collapsed.

The moment he did, a fire suddenly burst into existence, and all the Dothraki suddenly screamed in terror.

Wasting no time, Beren dashed towards the nearby horse, slashed the face of its owner, leaped upon its back, and rode off towards the south-west, slashing at any and all Dothraki in his way, or letting the large warhorse trample them down under its hooves.

Through the smoke, he rode, doing his best to ignore the screams, just like the screams at the God's Eye.

He shook his head to banish the memories.

Soon enough, he saw the others, riding away. He angled his horse towards them and soon caught up. They seemed none-the-worse-for-wear.

As the camp burned, the small party made their escape….

* * *

**The dog**

_Two days later_

Khal Tagko always enjoyed riding, whether it be a woman or a horse. But, after what had happened two days prior, he felt no pleasure from either activity.

The fire had died down, but a majority of the slaves had escaped.

"What will we tell them, blood of my blood?" Akko asked.

"The truth," Tagko replied, as he rubbed at one of the scars inflicted by the green tiger. They were healing, so far, but it still hurt a bit.

Damn that demon! May the great Stallion trample him to dust, and drown him for eternity in the poison water! Damn-

The rumble of unfamiliar hooves made all conversation die in their throats, even as the shaky call of the sentries announced the arrival of the Sarnori.

With a grunt, Tagko rose and turned to face them.

He was a khal of the Dothraki, and a child of the Great Stallion. He would not be cowed by the Tall Men.

The Sarnori were all tall and mounted upon swift horses and chariots.

As one, they all stopped a good way away from the khalasar in a massive rattle of steel and arms. One Sarnori, a female bedecked in great armor, and taller than even Tagko, descended from her chariot and strode forward, her helmet under her arm. In her other hand, she held a large banner, depicting a single Great Eye of black and yellow and crimson, on a field of blue. Her curved blade bounced at her hip.

She planted it in the ground, and then called out in the strange, whispery tongue of the Sarnori and the Masked Ones.

Then, from the sky came down their doom and judgment.

It was a flying, scaled monster, colored blacker than night, and with wide and mighty wings. As it descended, it roared with a large maw full of fangs, and its screech cut through the air. The beast's eyes were the color of poison.

None dared look away as the flying beast softly landed upon the ground. None dared look away as its rider dismounted from the winged creature with inhuman grace. Nor did they look away from the watching eyes of the Sarnori.

Like all Masked Ones, the figure was tall, taller than even the tall Sarnori woman, and wore a strange and terrible mask, wrought in the shape of some unknowable creature. A large and great mane of plaited hair spread behind it, and down the Masked one's back towards the small of its spine. The figure wore armor and robes wrought with strange symbols and engraved with figures of the sea and flames and other creatures. The Masked One's shadow seemed to envelop all of the khalasar.

As one, all the khalasar, even the women and the remaining slaves, and especially the warriors, bowed, their heads flush against the ground.

The figure stopped before the Sarnori woman and nodded at her. The Sarnori bowed deeply and backed away.

All in the khalasar could feel the eyes of the Masked one burning into them.

Then, it spoke.

**"Where is my dog?" **it said, the Dothraki tongue odd with its dark and lyrical accent. **"Where is the mongrel to whom I gave leadership of this pack of mangy curs?"**

Tagko did his best rise without shaking, even as fear clenched itself tightly around his belly.

Slowly, like a predator, the Masked One stalked towards Tagko, shadowing the khal.

Clenched in one hand was a long, evil-looking whip, while a sheathed sword rested at its hip.

The Masked one loomed over Tagko. It looked about at the burnt campsite, at the little wounds on his person, and then spoke. **"You failed, thing."**

Tagko said nothing, and merely knelt again, this time to lay his arakh at the master's feet.

**"Strip. Failing dogs do not deserve to wear clothes before their masters and betters."**

Without resistance, and still kneeling, the mighty khal stripped, until he knelt barefoot and naked on the ground.

The Masked one stalked closer, and roughly pulled Tagko to his feet by his throat.

A cool wind flitted across Tagko's flesh.

**"You failed, dog. You failed to attack Pentos within the allotted timeframe. Then, instead of owning up to it, you fled towards Volantis and gorged yourself on woman flesh and wine. Though, you did finally leave and tried to gain more slaves through raids. Then, you sent me a message, telling me of a 'great prize.' Yet here I am, and I see no 'great prize'.**

**"Instead, I see you here, with your camp burned, you defeated, and your slaves escaped, while you have been sitting here, mourning the loss of your minuscule competence. You followed the whims of your cock, instead of your orders, and it has brought you to utter ruin. Thus, you have embarrassed me before the Great One, and my peers. So now, I am forced to be here, forced to be speaking your mongrel tongue, and forcing my eyes to look upon you… and your disgusting forms," **the Masked One said, its eyes boring into Takgo. "**I despise that."**

Then, almost gently, the Masked One reached down and began to stroke Tagko's cock and stones. The Khal shivered. Despite himself, he felt himself begin to grow hard. **"You have some girth here, dog. Tell me, how many slaves, how many whores, how many Lhazareen women and girls have felt this cock enter them from the front and behind? How many of them took it in their mouths, your seed spilling onto their tounges and down their throats, mixed with their blood and tears and saliva?" **

Tagko began to shake, as the Masked One continued to stroke Takgo's cock and stones. "**Answer me, dog. Bark."**

"M…many have, oh great one," the Khal finally said.

**"How many?" **it asked, its movements increasing in motion. The shaft was growing hard, but Tagko felt no pleasure from it, despite the shiver passing through his body.

"I… I know not."

The movements slowed but still continued, and Tagko felt almost ready to spill his seed. "**Your kind… you treat these organs like toys. You use them until it either breaks or rots away from disease. Disgusting."**

Suddenly, its hand clenched Tagko's cock and stones, tight, even as the seed began to dribble out Tagko let loose a high-pitched whine, pain flashing into his eyes.

**"As I said, you followed the whims of _this_, instead of your orders. You disobeyed me. You acted like a child, dog. Thus, I now take away your favorite toy as punishment."**

_Shrip!_

As Tagko's scream resounded across the area, that now bloody hand dropped its terrible load to the ground, a bit of seed still at the tip. The masked one then clenched around the khal's face, talons digging into his flesh and lifted him clear off the ground, piss and blood and pus pouring from between his kicking legs. Steam began to billow between the figure's fingers as Tagko kept screaming.

Then, the Masked One dropped him to the ground. As the khal huddled on the ground, the flesh on his face now burned and steaming, up rose the Masked One's hand and down came the Masked One's whip.

_CRACK_

_ CRACK_

_ CRACK_

_ CRACK_

_ CRACK_

_ CRACK_

_ CRACK  
CRACK_

_ CRACK!_

Finally, the whip stilled. Tagko was a now pitiable thing on the ground, countless red lines spread across his body, and pieces of his body on the ground, as he lay in a large puddle of piss and blood and other fluids.

He let loose a strangled whimper.

The Masked One sheathed its whip and then turned to the rest of the _khalasar_. **"Who among you are this dog's bloodriders? Stand and approach me."**

Hesitantly, Akko, and Tomo and Rumio stood and came forward. "We… we are, oh great one."

The Masked one's eyes roved over them. Then, it pointed at Akko. **"You, bond-blood. Come closer."**

Akko came forward. **"Tell me… do you want to be khal?"** the Masked One asked.

Akko swallowed. "Yes."

**"Speak louder, dog."**

"Yes, I do!"

It lifted up Tagko's arrakh, and then dropped it at Akko's feet, before yanking the mewling and barely-awake Tagko up by his braid. **"If that is true, then you know what must be done. Kill this thing, so that you may lead in its place. Kill it with its own weapon."**

Akko swallowed but then took up the arrakh.

A moment later, Tagko's body collapsed back down, whilst his head dangled by its braid.

The Masked One tossed the head carelessly over its shoulder and then loomed over Akko. "**Now you are Khal. Tell me, do you feel different? Perhaps greater?"**

Silently, Akko shook his head.

The Masked One looked towards Takgo's corpse. It then gestured to its mount. "**Orvash. _Ammat_."**

As the winged creature swiftly devoured the body with a quick series of snaps, the Masked one looked back over the mass of Dothraki and slaves, and then turned to the army of Tall men. "**Kill a third of their warriors. Make their new Khal watch. After that, we return to the City."**

As the Tall Men set about their butchery, all Akko could do was just watch, especially since one grabbed him by his chin and kept him from looking away.

When the screams subsided, The Masked One Looked down upon the silent Akko and shoved a clawed finger under his nose. **"Remember this well, dog. Remember the price of failure. Remember that your _Great Stallion _is forever yoked and gelded and broken to the whims of the True One. Remember the screams. I will not be so lenient a second time." **

The Masked One then mounted its terrible creature, and off it flew into the sky.

Wordlessly, Akko and the remnants of the _khalasar_ rode off behind the Sarnori, like beaten dogs trailing after their masters, for they could not go anywhere else….

* * *

**_The Wanderer_**

The rest of the voyage after their escape was oddly uneventful and seemed to go rather quickly.

It was mostly spent with getting to know their new companions, Bella and Vario. The two made an odd pair; one a former slave, and the other a former bravo and water-dancer of Braavos with a price on her head.

An odd pair, indeed.

Other than that, there was little conversation. They were mostly concerned with speeding towards Valyria. Oddly enough, it seemed that they were not being perused.

The days passed. They rode, stopped, ate, slept, and then woke up to repeat. For all those days, the sights around them were all but the same.

They rode through the hills, and strode around the base of the Painted mountains, as they had no proper equipment for scaling the mountains.

Then, one day, as they crested the next countless hill… it changed.

With a sigh, Beren rolled up the map that had been resting on his knees and the pommel of his saddle, and then returned it to its sheaf. It would serve them little purpose now. "There it is… Valyria."

The small group all came to a step as they looked over the land. From this distance, it seemed…. Unremarkable. The only noticeable thing was how dark the seemingly endless area appeared.

And yet… the closer they approached, the more a feeling of dread seemed to tie itself around Beren's heart.

They came closer, and the horses were starting to become skittish, the more they penetrated into the Lands of the Long Summer.

Beren had no idea where to go now. All they could go was straight, perhaps.

* * *

They continued onwards for what seemed like days but were perhaps only hours. It was difficult to tell. The sky was an almost solid grey, like a leviathan's flesh. There were no clouds, just… solid grey.

With every step, the horse kept trembling, no matter how often they stopped, no matter how many soothing words were whispered into their equine ears.

The horses were all but shaking now, and even whispers from Luthien and Beleg in the elven tongue could not calm them for long.

They passed by what seemed to be the remnants of old buildings, the columns sticking out like bleached bones on a long-forgotten battlefield.

At times, they heard strange sounds, sounds too inhuman to describe.

One depression in the land they strode through held strange, floating lights that glowed a sickly green. They avoided the lights on instinct.

When it rained, the water was hot and scalding upon bare skin, and Luthien's horse died. Beren continued on foot. One by one, the rest of their mounts died as well, either from the rain… or from what seemed to be sheer terror.

On foot, they all continued.

They passed through the remains of grandiose structures, coliseums, and other things. Skeletons of humans, dragons… and other creatures that defied description.

In some of the ruins, and across their path, they found strange statues, wrought in the shape of figures racked with pain and flailing with pure horror.

None deigned to examine them too closely.

When they rested, strange mists covered the land. At times, Beren thought he could see shapes moving within.

Not for the first time, it struck him and his companions how utterly… _fell_ this land was. It seemed to exude an aura of… _wrong._ Up felt like down, and no one knew what direction they were following, whether it was to the east or west.

More than that, no one had any idea where they were going.

They went days without speaking, and sometimes it felt like minutes or weeks.

Bit by bit, their food ran low, and their rations turned to half-rations.

Beren felt himself growing heavier each day. The air itself seemed to slowly suck at his spirit. Each lifting of his foot seemed to take great effort.

There were moments when he felt as if he should just… lay down.

He felt Luthien's hand entwine with his.

He steeled himself and kept forward, and the rest followed behind him.

The further they traveled… the more he through he could hear something… sounds of carts, of people, of battle, of weeping, of screams… of fire.

How long could they go on?

Then, Beleg and Luthien's head shot up.

A moment later, Beren and the rest heard them too.

Footsteps. Measured and steady. Unafraid and unconcerned.

It was coming from the hills behind them.

None in the group could fight the urge to remain rooted.

On instinct, Beren drew his grey sword, his prize from Lys. _Truth's _steel reflected no light.

On the top of the hill crested… a figure.

The figure seemed a hunched, twisted mass of rags and dark armor. It seemed solid and yet… indistinct. From the depths of its hood, Beren could note two great, fiery eyes.

Terror clutched and clawed at Beren's soul.

In one hand, it held a large blade. Upon a finger gleamed a tarnished band of gold.

It was only through instinct, pure and simple, that Beren raised his blade before the figure's own weapon suddenly crashed against it.

Such power, behind that blow. It nearly drove Beren to his knees.

None of the others could move.

Their blades kissed but nine times, each blow all but wrenching _Truth_ from Beren's hands.

Then, the figure's empty hand shot out.

Before his disbelieving eyes, he watched as the figure grasped _Truth's_ blade fully… and the Valyrian steel shattered into countless shards under that twisted grip.

The resultant force blew him back away from the figure. It seemed to break the spell upon the rest of the party. Luthien grabbed him tightly and lifted him to his feet.

He held onto the broken hilt of _Truth. _Beren thought he must be hallucinating for a brief moment. How could Valyrian steel just… shatter?

The figure opened its arms, almost mockingly, and took a single step forward.

The ground crunched beneath its boot, and Beren found his voice.

"Run!" he all but bellowed.

As one, he and his companions fled forward, away from… whatever was chasing them.

By the gods, he could hear it, walking steadily behind them. This was but a game to it. As if it were a child, idly pursuing a thing that it knew it could outrun at any time.

But he dared not look back.

They kept running and running, over hot earth, over decaying skeletons, and preserved statues.

Running, and running and running and then…

The ground opened up beneath them… and they fell into darkness.

None had time to scream.

* * *

He felt a cold warmth upon his face.

With a start, Beren shot up, and found himself and the others… within a large cavern.

He scrambled to his feet and towards Luthien. She was fine, as were the others, save for a few bruises and scrapes.

A moment later, they heard a _tap-tap-tapping_ of a staff on the ground, and they saw a light that then grew larger around them as a figure approached.

The figure was garbed in rags and piecemeal leathers and metal and a great hooded cloak. At his belt dangled a hammer. He walked with a strange, stiff and limping gait, and leaned upon a staff. But though he seemed slightly hunched over, the figure still loomed over most of the group.

From the head of the staff, the cold light seemed to radiate outwards, a pale and mournful color like that of a robin's egg.

"You…" it said, with a rasping, male voice. "You fell through my trapdoor."

He sounded as if his through had been crushed, slashed, and burned at one point.

He lifted one of his hands, and shakenly pointed at each of them. Beren noted with sorrow at the broken manacle clamped around the figure's wrist. "Essosi… atani… eldar… and westerosi."

His shaking increased. "Are… are you real? Or do the specters above torment me with more false visions?"

Without hesitation, Luthien and Beren strode forth. "We are real, friend," said fair Luthien, as she grasped at his outstretched hand. "There is nothing to fear."

The figure flinched at her touch, and then he slowly pulled away. "You are real. The monsters… never act with kindness."

He then shuffled around and began to walk away. "Follow. But stay close to me… to the light. As long as you are within the light… they will not harry you."

None in the group held a desire to ask what 'they' were.

They walked and followed the strange person through a long tunnel, the light on the staff the only illumination.

They then emerged onto a second cavern, and it looked… lived in.

A stone table sat next to a bed. At the far end was the shore of what looked like a large, underground river. Attached to it was a simple craft. At the other end… was a forge, and the smooth wall next to it was bedecked with swords and weapons and other things of dazzling make and beauty.

In the center of the room was a large mass of the strange, pale, cold fire.

What was this figure?

The figure plunged his staff into the great flame and left it there. "I have… food. Mushrooms and… lizard and… fish," he said, as he limped to the table.

Beleg strode up and examined one of the swords upon the wall, a long blade with a golden hilt and pommel wrought in the shape of a lion, and encrusted with rubies. "This is… elven work."

He turned to the cloaked figure. "Who are you, stranger?"

Their strange host was silent for a long moment. "Once… I was of the light. I heard the song, and I helped to shape wonderous things. My hands sang things from the fire into being; things of a great and kind beauty."

His manacled hands started to shake. "Then it all fell apart. Kin slaughtered kin. Brother turned on brother. The darkness… it called to us, and it snuffed out our light. The fire burned… the star… the child of the tree…used to bind me here… for twelve thousand years. My hands can no longer sing beauty into this world… only death."

With shaking hands, he pulled back his hood.

Beren felt himself recoiling in shock.

The entirety of the figure's face was a horrendous collection of scar tissue. A small portion of his lips was missing, revealing his teeth in an eternal grin. His right eye was a dead, twisted orb, and what hair he still had was long and grey and lank.

"I had a true name once… before it was burned from me, before I was bound by the star to these accursed lands, by one I trusted. My name, my true name, is forever gone from my lips and mind, and all that is left… is Eöl. Eöl Morfinwë."

Then, a strange light entered his remaining eye. "Perhaps… perhaps you can finally help me. Perhaps you're being here… is fortuitous. Perhaps Tommen was right."

"What are you talking about?" Beren finally said.

Who was Tommen?

Eöl ignored the question and limped his way to his forge, where there sat another set of tables.

From the table farthest from the forge, he grabbed at a map and limped back to the larger table near the center of the cavern. He all but slammed the map down on the table and pointed a finger in the center of it.

Beren noted with surprise that it was an intricately detailed map of Valyria, from before the doom. The Maesters of Oldtown would have paid a heavy price for such a thing.

Eöl tapped his clawed finger upon the point. "In the capital city, in the depths of the central palace… there lies the star. I cannot grasp it. I am blocked from doing so. And, alas… most of you cannot grasp it… save for you."

He leaned over the table towards Beren and Luthien, ignoring the others. "You two… there is a light within you that can beat back the darkness of that fell place… you can grasp the star. You can free me!"

His eye became pleading. "Will you help me? Please? The star can be yours. All you need to do is take it from its setting. Please?"

Beren said nothing for a moment, his eyes clasped upon this twisted being before them. He looked again upon the manacles around Eöl's wrist.

Twelve thousand years.

Beren looked upon fair Luthien, at the pity within her eyes for this twisted figure.

Beren then nodded, and Luthien spoke. "We shall help you, Eöl."

Though what good would he be with a broken blade?

For a brief moment, Eöl gave what seemed to be a smile, his scarred face distorting by the motion. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "Yes! At last!"

His eyes then darted towards the broken hilt in Beren's hand. Eöl started to work his jaw up and down furiously, the exposed portions making it a sight that one could not help but be arrested by. "Yes… you will need a strong blade. You all will. So, feel free to pick from my stock, but you, son of Westeros… Yours came from here, I can hear it, its moans echoing in my ear, but it has been broken. It must be replaced and remade. To replace that which was broken. Yes! Yes!"

Without asking, he snatched up _Truth's_ hilt from Beren's grasp and held it up before his eye. "Yes. I recognize this one… a thousand souls went into its forging, each speaking a single truth from their lips as they died… yes. I remember them all and their measurements. This one, it shall be reformed and purified, with my metal from above the sky. Yes! Oh Tommen, you were right! Hope has returned to me!"

He looked upon the rest of the group for a moment. "Rest. We shall rest. You shall rest, while I work. Then, upon the blade's rebirth, we shall depart. Depart for the central city, across the little sea. Eat, and then you may take your pick from the rest of my horrid creations."

Beren and Luthien looked upon the rest of their companions as Eöl shuffled away, towards his forge.

They all had questions, but at the moment, all they could think of was hunger.

The lizard was surprisingly good. So, they ate that and mushroom and fungi and fish as the sounds of a forge hammer rang out through the cavern, dancing off every edge of the walls.

Bella leaned in closer so they could hear her whispers over the ringing of the hammer. "You think we can trust this… person? He seems more than half-mad."

Jorelle, quiet Jorelle, spoke up as well. "There's something wrong with him."

Beren in turn shrugged. "What other choice do we have? Besides, we have given our word to help him, and he is the only one who can guide us from these caverns. Also, he says he has been here-"

"For twelve thousand years," Beleg said.

Beren and the rest looked at the archer. "What are your thoughts, my friend?"

The Strongbow shrugged. "Nothing, save for scant suspicions, but…" he paused and glanced briefly over at Eöl's form, hunched over his alit forge.

Beleg then faced the group again. "…Whoever he once was, he has been broken by whatever horrors he has endured in this horrid place. We should tread with caution."

They spoke no more after that and focused on their meals.

After that, the sounds of the forge lulled them all to sleep as they rested upon the floor on rough, home-spun blankets provided by the strange smith.

_Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. _

* * *

The sound of hot metal being quenched in water woke them all. Beren rose from where he lay next to Luthien to find Eöl standing at the forge, looking upon a finished blade.

The smith turned towards the group with a manic look upon his distorted face and in his remaining eye. "It is finished."

He shuffled over towards Beren and thrust out the sword towards him, hilt first. "I present to you _Sanya-Anguirel_; The Truth of the Fiery Star. Use it well, son of Westeros. I apologize that I had no time to forge a sheath."

Wordlessly, Beren took up the blade. Whereas _Truth _had felt light in his hand… this one felt all but weightless. The hilt was pretty much the same as it had always been, with its black-and-silver-handle, the straight hilt, and the green gem inset into its pommel. It had once been an amethyst, but Beren had replaced it after his escape.

But as for the blade proper… where once it had been like a shard of night and deathly grey, now it was a swirl of silver, obsidian, and a hint of spring green and fiery red. Where once the sword had felt deathly and cool to touch, it now felt… alive, almost. Warm. It was like looking at a comet forged into the shape of a sword.

He stepped away and gave it a few experimental swings and slashes. It _hummed _through the air.

Behind him, Vario's large hands flashed through a rapid succession of strange movements, which Bella seemed to understand. "I hate to interrupt this big moment and whatnot, but my big friend here wants to know when we leave," the Braavosi asked.

Beren felt a bit embarrassed, and he put the sword through the sheathe on his back.

"We leave now," Eöl said, as he scrambled around the cavern. "We shall take my boat. Not to worry. I keep it fully stocked. Come, come. We must be off. There is no more time to waste."

* * *

The boat was spacious enough for private space and propelled forward and about by a rudder and a long oar and what seemed to be a sail. They each stocked up on mushroom and dried fish and lizard, and barrels of collected water from the stalactites.

Then, they were off, with the strange smith arming himself with the lion-hilted sword and his staff, all the while murmuring about 'Tommen.' He also allowed the rest to arm themselves as well.

Beleg took up a silvery blade and a quiver of strange arrows that seemed crafted from grey wood and… stone.

Vario chose a massive, two-headed ax, while Bella procured several long and short daggers.

Others perhaps would have said something, argued against following the directions of a figure who was more than half-mad.

But all felt weary in mind and thoughts. Besides, they were still on a quest, and quests had to be followed through until the end.

* * *

The heat rose as the exited onto the surface.

They were on the Smoking Sea. He could feel the heat slightly through the floor of the craft and watched through the strange windows at each side.

Eöl maneuvered the craft in near silence at the wheel, still only occasionally muttering about 'Tommen,' and 'children of the trees.'

They got closer to the center island of the Valyrian peninsula. As they approached the shallows and bumped upon the shore, Eöl shuffled through the boat, and unlatched the top hatch of the strange boat, and hauled himself out. He seemed unperturbed by the steaming water sloshing about his ankles and legs. He ignored the heat as he set down the wood-and-metal-ramp for the rest.

"The star, it is at the center palace. But we must be canny and quiet. There are still _things_ that dwell in the shadows here."

With that charming sentiment, the group followed the strange figure deeper into the island.

* * *

Beren kept a firm grip on his reborn sword. This island, it felt more _wrong _then the mainland. Whole ruins filled with skeletons and petrified corpses littered near every hill area, along with what looked like massive scorch marks. Here, all could actually hear faint moans and screams on the wind.

At some moment, they felt as if they could hear loud wingbeats on the wind.

"We must remain strong," Eöl said, over the faint screams, as he held up his glowing staff strong, the light beating back the darkness, or at least keep them from being swallowed. "Great horrors were perpetrated here, and that leaves its mark upon the land. But whatever you do, do not leave the light, or you will not return."

They did their best to follow his advice, but it was… difficult. Whereas the air upon the mainland had been merely oppressive, here the air felt… overwhelming. The despair felt drawn in with every breath, and darkness seemed to seep within every pore of their skin. It felt as if a physical weight was pressing down upon them like an avalanche of rocks.

It felt a struggle just to keep moving forward. But forward they continued under and through the many cliffs of the island.

They hardly ever stopped to rest, ushered on by Eöl's almost manic energy.

The more inland they went, the louder the moans and screams became. They even started to hear movement beyond the hills and ruins. Movement and snarling.

Then, they crested the hill. "There it be," Eöl stated. "The capital itself. Valyria."

They looked upon a long-tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow, ran back far into the mountains. Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat sat the city itself, carved into the mountain. At one time, it must have been a grand and terrible sight, this city of Valyria, as must have befit the capital of the Valyrian Freehold. There was still a hint of that beauty to it, but it was the beauty of a preserved corpse. Radiating from its walls and towers was a strange light, paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse. It was a corpse-light, the sort of light that illuminated nothing.

It seemed nothing more than a city of the dead, a massive mausoleum.

They rested upon that hill for minutes, unable to tear their eyes from that terrible, dark place before them. Then, they continued onwards. Jorelle then spoke up softly as they trudged onwards. "Are we just going to walk up to the front door of that accursed place?"

"It is the only entrance and the most direct route to the star. As long as we do not step outside the light, its… inhabitants will not harry us," Eöl replied. "But only as long as we remain in the light. But more than that, we must not speak a word. Should they hear any tongue of the living, or see you outside the light… then they will fall upon us in blind wrath."

That killed any remaining conversation rather quickly. In silence, they walked upon the single remaining dragon-road towards the city gates.

The gates of the city were massive things, each as tall as a small mountain, and carved from a smooth rock as pale as bone. They hung ajar, like the maws of a dragon, eager and waiting for its meal to simply walk up into its gullet.

With fear in their hearts and tightened grips upon their weapons, they ventured with silence into the city.

Unlike the other ruins, however… it was all empty within. The interior actually looked pristine. Not untouched by time, but… frozen, like a dead man's rictus grin.

They stayed within the light, and spoke not a sound, as they headed towards the center of the city of Eöl's silent directions and motions. His hands were gripping the staff tightly.

The central palace was a large and imposing citadel, adorned with statues and gargoyles of leering dragons and demons and things. Its walls and gates were as deathly pristine as the rest of the city, only this was carved what looked like the blackest midnight in the form of marble and stone and steel.

Silently they strode closer, staying within the light. Silently, silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Then… Vario tripped on an errant stone and stumbled. As he set out a hand to steady himself, he let loose a strange sound from his tongue-less throat, as his hand strode out from the light.

That single sound he uttered, it echoed through the city over and over, metaphorical head over the metaphorical bottom.

Eöl's head turned so quickly it was a wonder it did not twist off his shoulders, and his eyes were wider than an owl's.

At the same time, a loud and unholy shriek rang throughout the city of the dead, and it bounced off every stone.

Bella then let loose a curse. "Oh fuck."

Eöl started to shake. "They have heard us. We must fly! Too late to turn back! To the palace! Now!"

As one, they all fled, their feet echoing on the smooth stones of the city road.

Behind them, they heard something in the distance. It… it was not true footsteps, but… the _echoes _of footsteps, pale facsimiles.

Faster and faster they ran, towards the palace, until they were within the gates that hung barely ajar.

The palace loomed over them like the skull of some great, horrid beast.

Then, Eöl came to a halt, prompting the rest to do the same.

He then turned to Luthien and Beren. "The star is within, in the bottommost depths. But only you two can penetrate the castle's boundaries. Your bond will guide and protect you within. But the rest of us are barred by the terrible wards about it. Please, do not argue. Just go!"

Beren wanted to argue, as did Luthien, but then Beleg and Jorelle interrupted any protestations. "Please, my lady. You must. We will hold the line here," the Strongbow declared, as he nocked an arrow to the string of his great bow.

"See this quest to the end, Lady Luthien," Jorelle said, in her soft voice.

Beren and Luthien looked upon their companions.

Then, the two raced through the courtyard, and into the palace.

* * *

**_The Bravo_**

Bella gripped her sword tightly. At times, she still wondered just how mad she and Vaario had been to join on this strange quest with these strange, mad, and beautiful people.

But it was too fucking late to turn back now, right?

She chanced a look towards Vario, her one true companion. The big man was gripping his new ax, a wary-yet-eager look in his brown eyes.

"Not a bad place for our story to end, eh Vaar?"

All the big man could do was flash her a grin.

The mass of strange footsteps drew closer.

Then from the opening in the gate emerged…

It looked like it had once been human, a handsome Valyrian figure in a full suit of armor of scales, and tall and noble in bearing.

But half of his sunken, skeletal face, framed by pale hair, looked as if it had been melted off by a fire, and he seemed… indistinct, and he bore about him the same light as the rest of the city. His eyes were solid and glowing orbs of poisonous purple, and they were furrowed in wrath, alongside his bared teeth.

"A wraith," Eöl said, as the light on his staff began to pulse, and he drew his lion-hilted sword from his side. "There will be more. Do not let their weapons cut you! Beware of the creatures that accompany them. Whatever you do-"

A moment later, he let loose a great shout as he parried the twisted sword of the burned figure, who had suddenly appeared above him with an unholy shriek.

Soon enough, more creatures began to slowly trickle through the opening. More things like what Eöl was fighting, and other, terrible, malformed things that shrieked with wrath and wordless rage.

As she parried a spectral blade and stabbed a crooked body aside, and lost herself to the flow of combat, her mind was pierced with a sibilant and terrible voice, and it made her almost collapse from its awesome horror.

**_"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of _my_ domains. You cannot hide from me._**

**_"I see you, a girl with no face. Are you sure you are who you truly think you are? That you are still not a little waif, wandering lost and forlorn among the canals? Is your face truly your own? Or is it still there, in that temple? How long can you outrun _****their _grasp?_**

**_"After all; _The Many-Faced God must have his due." **

* * *

**_The Strongbow_**

Arrow after arrow was loosed from Beleg's quivers and sped from the string of Belthronding at the creatures and wraiths, things he had not seen since that horrid war, and the frozen battle so many millennia ago.

This was impossible. Had this empire been established by the Enemy?

Had **he** actually survived?

Then came a most terrible and wicked voice.

**_"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of _****my_ domains. You cannot hide from me._**

**_"I see you,_** **_oh mighty and proud archer. You could have done more, Strongbow. But you did not. You, like so many others, turned a blind eye to what was done to those who did not grasp the light. You knew you all knew what blood had been shed in the land you call home. _**

**_"You know. And like the rest of your hidden kingdom, you watched, and you did nothing."_**

* * *

**_The Silent One_**

The butte of his ax sent a spectral warrior careening against the wall and made it dissipate into a strange mist with a shriek, and he then buried the ax's edge into the head of a thing with too many eyes and mouths.

Combat was one of the few times where he did not hear the screams of his village as the Dothraki burned it to the ground. It made the pain of his tongue lessen.

The lessons of his parents surged through his limbs as he parried and blocked and slashed.

He had never fought foes like these before, but that would not stop him.

Then, cold shot through his bones as a terrible voice lanced into his mind.

**_"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of _****my_ domains. You cannot hide from me._**

**_"And I see you as well. How long do you believe you can run from the screams? You are nothing, nothing more than that scared little boy, hiding and weeping as he watched his family and friends were raped, murdered, and sold off into slavery. You are still that boy, who screamed and wept as the horse lords ripped out your tongue, and left you for dead in the dirt. You are still the mute, sold to the temple of flames within the First Daughter for a measly 10 honors. Tell me, do you even remember what your voice sounded like? Or has it been lost to the screams as well?"_**

* * *

**_The Loyal Guard_**

Jorelle, like many atani of her line, held little to no personal ambitions of her own. She lived to serve the line and house of Thingol and to protect the Lady Luthien.

She kept firing arrows, and then dropped her bow and reached for her great spear, and skewered a wretched thing through its head.

Then she heard the voice.

**_"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of _****my_ domains. You cannot hide from me._**

**_"And I see you as well, oh loyal guard. You have served your masters and overlords well, do you not? Like a well-trained mongrel dog. But… do you think they actually care about you? That _she _cares about you at all? After all, she dragged you on this mad quest for her _love_. You will die here, and she will live, and you will be forgotten, as have so many others of your line and your kind."_**

Stalwart Jorelle shook her head as she wrenched out her spear, and ducked under the blow of a spectral mace. "Be silent. I am an atani, and I serve the lady. That is enough."

* * *

**_The Broken Smith_**

Eöl raised Tomman's blade high and slashed across the neck of a wraith, this one of a slender woman with gaping holes where her eyes should have been, and a large puncture wound in her chest.

It was little more than a feeling he had, but he felt sure that this day… he would be free. It was not pure hope, but rather… the hoping of hope.

Then lancing into his brain and soul came _that _voice, and as the manacles upon his wrists burned as they had so many times before, Eöl gritted his teeth and shook in fear.

**_"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of _****my_ domains. You cannot hide from me._**

**_"And I see you as well, broken one. I would have thought you lost in totality to madness and despair. You will never be free. You are bound to these lands by the child of the tree, and you will remain so until the days the stars themselves fall from the heavens. You know this, just as you know that you have only yourself to blame, dark one. _**

**_ "So give in, and I may even let your torment come to a merciful end."_**

Eöl shook his head like an angry dog, even as he bashed aside a creature with four tongues and no lips. "No, no! I am wary of your lies, deceiver, murderer! NO longer will your forked tongue deceive me! Tommen's promise still holds! I shall be free of this accursed land, and I shall be free of you, and cut my way to freedom with my friend's own blade!"

* * *

**_The Nightengale_**

As the sounds of battle echoed behind them, Luthien and her love dashed into the palace proper.

The interior was as cold and empty as the outside. Nothing living or warm filled it at all. No rugs, no tapestries, not even suits of armor or other decorations.

Nothing.

They found the stairs and began to descend.

They traversed down long swathes of staircases, past rooms and terrible doors, and other yawning portals.

Behind them, Luthien felt a presence hurtling after them. But neither she or her love dared to look back.

They kept racing downwards until the stairway terminated upon a flat floor of black stone, and a doorway.

Upon passing under the arch, they turned on their heels, and swiftly closed and bolted the doors shut

Outside, they heard the roars and screeches of the darkness. But, for the moment, it seemed they were safe.

Luthien then looked about and saw within it sat… a forge.

It was as empty, save for a cold hearth, an empty quenching pit, an anvil, and…

For some reason, she felt arrested by what she saw, next to the cold forge heart and dead anvil. She had seen such devices in smithies of her father's kingdom. Such a thing had been shown to her by a kindly atani ring-smith, Torrhen, son of Granden.

Nine separate molds did sit next to the hearth and quenching pit and anvil. Nine molds, made of simple stone, each large enough to hold a single ring.

Yet, when Luthien looked upon those nine empty molds, she felt a palpable sense of dread, of… _evil_.

"Come on!" Beren said, snapping her from her thoughts. Behind them and behind the rattling doors, the darkness howled and roared in a mad fury, as the pair continued to run past the forge and deeper into the castle depths.

They fled under another arch and exited upon a massive and dark courtroom like that which would service a king. Or rather, it seemed a dark and twisted mockery of one, crafted from pure unnaturalness and evil.

At the far end, there sat a great and terrible throne, and upon it… was a crown. A crown large enough to dwarf even a giant. Even from the great distance, Luthien and Beren could make out a massive rent in the device, as if it had been cut almost in two.

Set into that crown… was a light. A light purer and softer and grander and more terrible than any either had ever seen in their lives. It called out to them, this light, like a call for help… or a siren's seductive song.

They each took a step forward…

* * *

**_The Fourth Son_**

He took a single step forward… and beside him, Luthien vanished.

"LUTHIEN!" Beren cried out in alarm, as he looked all about.

Where was she? Where had she gone?

Then, came a terrible voice, echoing from all around him. **_"She cannot help you… Beren Hightower. Oh yes. I know who you are, just as I recognize that ancient and pitiful blood that runs in your veins. The fourth son and the fifth child. Destined to be ever forgotten by all, a lesser son of once-greater sires. _**

**_ "And forgotten is what you will be. You are going to die here. Your body, and the body of your elven whore, will lie here forever, fading away to dust, unknown, and unmourned. You will be nothing. _**

**_"But, then again… You have always been nothing, have you not? The only thing of note you ever were… was Lot Number 971." _**

_…He could almost hear it, the sounds of that accursed market, in that accursed city. He could almost smell the stench of unwashed forms... _

_But the whips… the whips never ceased, nor did the clinking of manacles. _

_…He stood upon that platform, naked and unwashed, like cattle. His hands, chained to his ankles… _

_…800 honors were what he had been bought for, little coins no larger than an eye… _

_…The man's purple eyes held no warmth as he smiled. "You belong to me now, man of the west. You are now the property of Lorgan Maegyr, triarch of the Tiger Party." _

_…The Black walls loomed before him as he was yanked forward behind the palanquin…. _

_Laughter in his ears, as he was whipped and marked, over and over and over again…._

_He felt the flames on his back and on his face, as the wedding pavilion and the palace burned, and he fled into the night with his stolen blade, taken off the brother of the Lyseni groom…. _

The grip on his sword remained tight as he slashed at the shadows that sprung about, _Sanya-Anguirel's _blade hummed through the air.

"Did you honestly believe that you could escape?"

Before Beren's eyes stood the form of the man who had bought him. Lorgan Maegyr, in his cloak of tiger-skins and enameled armor. In his hand was a cruel sword and a familiar lash. Dark intent danced over his carved features and in amethyst eyes.

The shade of the volantene laughed his cruel laugh. "Did you honestly believe that I would not find you? You are mine, lot number 971, and you will never be anything else."

Beren's sword flashed through the air, and the volantene merely laughed as he dissipated into mist. "Do you seek to mock me, foul voice? I killed him! Wrung the life from his neck with my bare hands! I escaped!" Beren yelled as he slashed at the shadows.

The voice spoke again.

**_"Yes. You did escape, as the Black Walls burned. And then you returned to Westeros, and you joined the army of an uncrowned fool. All for what? To save your precious sister?"_**

_…Flames beat at his face. In the distance, he saw men killing one another, and scores upon scores falling beneath a hail of arrows. _

_In the sky, he saw two large shapes, tearing and biting at each other._

_Then, the larger of the shapes prevailed, and black sent silver careening to the ground far below. _

_With a cry of denial, Beren rushed forward, slashing at any who stood in his way, while the ground shook with the impact of Quicksilver's corpse, at the bank of the great river, which was already stained red and black with the blood of men and dragons. _

_Several yards from the dead dragon lying in a heap at the lip of the river was the king. _

_Aegon's limbs were twisted and bent, his armor was dented and fractured, and his mouth opened and shut in mute pain as blood dripped from his lips and nose. _

_How was he even alive?_

_"My king!" Beren said, as he sheathed his sword and knelt by the man. _

_What could he do? _

_The king's unfocused purple eyes blinked up at him, and his bloody mouth moved as if to say something…_

_The sound of great wingbeats sounded out, and then came the clamor of a large mass landing upon the ground. It drew Beren's gaze up and to the left, far down the field, through the massacre of his fellow soldiers. _

_The warmth of the air grew in temperature, as the Black Dread itself alit upon the field. It was so large that the beast's shadow all but covered the dying light of the sun. _

_Beren could make out the brutish figure of the Monster, mounted upon the massive beast. _

_Then, the figure gestured, and the dragon's massive maw opened, a dark light growing within. _

_Before Beren knew what, he was doing, he lifted up the king, and then dove into the dark waters of the God's Eye, just as massive and terrible heat erupted over them, creating a brief sensation of heat on his outstretched arm. _

_He kept a death-grip on the king as the current sent them hurtling off through the water…_

_He awoke upon the bank of another river, his hand still clenching the king's armor._

_He coughed and spat out water from his throat and lungs._

_He saw his arm somewhat singed, but he felt little pain from it. The River water had quenched the flames quickly enough._

_He then turned to Aegon. _

_His skin was clammy, and he breathed not all. _

_Aegon the Uncrowned was dead. _

_In the far distance, Beren watched as Balerion rose into the air, and set the rest of the God's Eye alight. Even from here, he could feel the heat of the dragon's fire. _

_He buried the king on that bank, and then got up, and started to walk…_

**_"You failed, and ended up killing your so-called king, filling his lungs with cold, dark water. And as for your sister… She died screaming, your sweet sister, at the monster's hand, when he had no more use for her. Do you want to know what he did to her? What he ordered done to her? Would you like to see?" _**

His mind was assaulted with a horrific image; his sister. His sweet, kind, gentle sister, stripped naked and chained to a wall, her skin covered in cuts and whip marks. She wept and screamed as Maegor and his dark lady and his knights… it was too horrid for his mind to even process.

At its end, Maegor cut her throat and laughed.

**_"She died, and you could not do anything. As always, you did nothing."_**

The screaming continued, even as the vision faded, and Beren all but fell to his knees. "STOP IT!" he screamed, the grip on his sword so tight that his hand was bleeding.

He then heard armored footsteps approached, and, even as the screams continued, he dove to the side as a massive sword slashed down upon where he had stood. He looked and…

There he stood.

The Monster.

The spawn of Aegon and Visenya stood, his brutish form massive and unnatural, his chest as large and broad as a bull, and his arms thick under his dark armor.

The murderer's face broke out into a dark and rictus grin, as he beheld Beren, and raised his sword again. Beren yelled aloud in rage as he barely parried aside Maegor's blow, only to receive a slash across the back from another weapon. He cried out in pain and spun out of the way to behold Lorgan, reformed, his shadowy sword dripping with blood.

As one, they advanced. Behind them glowed the light.

Beren shook his head, and, in sorrow, closed his mind to the screams. "ENOUGH OF THIS FARCE!" he bellowed.

As he did, he sped forward, the edge of _Sanya-Anguirel _slashing through the shocked features of his past monsters, even as their own weapons slashed at him.

As fast as he had ever run, he dashed towards the light, ignoring his wounds, and even as more shadows rose up in the shape of claws, and tore and pulled at him, even as he kept trying to step forward, his arm outstretched.

He had to reach it! He had to fulfill his oath, for her! He had to!

But they were too many, and they kept multiplying, all but drowning him in shadow.

They slowly dragged him to his knees, wrapping around his legs, his arms, his chest, his neck.

Then one gripped his head, and his mind was assailed with familiar images.

_…. A garden burning and drowned in blood and bones…_

_ … A bronze sword, fighting against a dark one…_

_ ….__Green and Black creatures, rutting against a beautiful, faceless, naked woman, laughing all the while they tore and bit at one another and her, even as all around them burned, and the woman cried and screamed…__…_

_ … A hammer, ringing out against metal, each blow more baleful than the last…_

_ … Shadows, tearing and biting and stabbing and killing and laughing…_

_ …. Nine fires, each cold and dark and dead on a field of ice and scorched land…_

**_"Surrender, and your death will be short, Beren Hightower. Surrender, and your pain will end. Does that not seem agreeable, son of the west? Do you not wish for your wanderings to end, to rest? _**

**_"To see your sister again, one last time? _**

The voice spoke again, and what it uttered was so _wrong _that it took all his efforts to stay conscious.

**_Nine for the dragons, lords of the sky_**

**_Nine for the dragons, fated ever to die._**

**_Nine shall they wear, _**

**_wrought from precious gold_**

**_And of the Nine, _**

**_shall their legends be_**

**_ in evil whispers told. _**

As more and more horrid images assaulted his mind, Beren could barely reach out his hand any longer.

**_ "As I said, Beren… you will die here. You, and all who followed you here. But, if it helps… compared to what will happen to your home… your deaths will be a mercy."_**

He… he couldn't move.

* * *

**_The Nightengale_**

The moment they stepped forward… Beren vanished.

"Beren?" Luthien said as he looked about.

But he was nowhere to be seen. But she heard him. She heard his screams of agony and pain.

"Where are you, beloved?" she cried out. "Where are you?"

**_"Beyond your grasp, daughter of Valinor."_**

The voice… it was so _terrible._ It took all her fortitude to remain standing.

"Who are you, foul thing?" she called out, as the shadows surrounded her on all sides.

**_"Something beyond your comprehension, daughter of Melian. Oh yes, I know who you are, and what blood runs through your veins. You bear it well, your mighty lineage."_**

Another of Beren's screams assaulted her ears. "Where is he?"

**_"Beyond your grasp, daughter of Thingol. But he always was destined to be so, correct? After all, his life is but infinitesimal, compare to yours. You are eternity… and he is but a single blink of an eye._**

**_"He will die here. All of those who followed you here will die. But it does not have to be this way."_**

The shadows drew closer. "What are you babbling about, shadowy thing?" she demanded, even as each scream of Beren tore at her soul.

**_"Stay here. Become mine, in body and soul. Something of your grandeur, your beauty, deserves nothing less than to be a queen of the World. So, become mine. In return, your 'love' and your companions will be spared. They will forever be with you, especially poor Beren. Like you, he will never age, and never die. He will always be by your side. I will give you all this, and more. All you need to do… is accept._**

**_"So… what say you, fair Luthien?"_**

What could she say, to such an offer? She had known that Beren's life was but a moment to her race. But… she cared not. Love was not a thing to be measured by something as inconsequential as time, for love itself was timeless.

Luthien shook her head. "I say to thee… nay, foul spirit! Your offers tempt me not, for they are but poison and lies!"

**_"You dare!? YOU DARE REFUSE ME, YOU IMPUDENT SPAWN OF VALINOR!?" _**

"Indeed, I dare! I recognize what you are, from the stories of my father! I know you for the foul, dark thing that you are! And I say to thee that you _hold no power here_! _I cast thee out! Your control over this land! I wrest it from thee here and now!"_

Then, she rose to her full height… and Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, and princess of Doriath… she began to sing.

It was something that was more than a mere song, something that went beyond that of anything that echoed from the lips of mortals.

It was unlike any song that had ever sound from the lips of man, unlike any that had been heard in these lands.

It was something that this land had never heard in over twelve-thousand years.

A song of hope, of standing strong in the face of tyranny and despair and evil.

No stone or shadow could stand before the might of this song. Indeed, it seemed to shake the very foundations of all the stones and steel and things of the city of the dead, in the land of Valyria.

All the voice could do was scream in rage and despair, as the shadows were blasted away.

* * *

**_The Strongbow_**

He had run out of arrows, and so took up his sword.

He knew not how many he and the others had killed, or how long they had been fighting. The courtyard was liberally littered with the bodies of the abominations.

All he did know was that he and the others were tiring.

Bit by bit, they were being pushed back, back, and back by the growing horde, until they were almost against the walls of the citadel.

It seemed that they would not be leaving here alive.

But at least they had come this far. There were worse ways to die.

Then, caressing his ears was a song. The loveliest song he had ever heard. And he recognized the voice. It was Lady Luthien's.

When he and his companions heard it, their spirits lifted, and their limbs were filled with a new and grand strength.

But when the horde of monsters and wraiths heard it… there came from them such a terrible and fearful uproar, and they all quailed in terror from the song, as if it were anathema to their very persons.

Bella of Braavos looked around in confusion. "What is that melody? What the hells is going on!?"

Near her, the one who called himself Eöl gripped his sword and staff tightly. He was shaking so much it was a wonder that he did not collapse. But there were tears in his eyes, ruined and functional.

"That is hope!" the twisted figure declared. "That is the idea of hope!"

Despite their situation, Beleg let loose a laugh. "Aye! And that hope shall help us win this day yet! Hear that melody, my friends! The day may yet be ours!"

The Strongbow raised his new sword high. "For Doriath! For Beren! For Lady Luthien!"

As one, the companions charged, as the melody danced all about them.

* * *

**_ The Wanderer_**

As the darkness continued to envelop him, Beren heard a song. It was Luthien, and she sang such a song that hope reignited in his chest at once.

With a determined grunt, he struggled to his feet and towards the light once again. "No! I will not die here! I swore an oath to her! I will see it through to the end, and I will see that she lives and returns home!" Beren exclaimed as he slashed at the hands and shadows about him.

Luthien's song seemed to drive back the darkness.

He reached closer.

The voice screamed out in frustration and rage. **_"No, no, NO, NO! DAMN YOU, BEREN HIGHTOWER! I DAMN YOU AND YOUR LINE AND YOUR ELVISH WHORE! I DAMN YOUR HOUSE AND ALL WHO SHARE YOUR BLOOD! MAY YOUR HOUSE TEAR ITSELF APART IN WAR AND KINSTRIFE! AND MAY ALL YOU KNOW AND LOVE BE BUT AS ASH AND BLOOD IN THE MOUTHES OF YOUR DESCENDANTS! I DAMN YOU! I DAMN YOU!"_**

Though the voice all but made blood pour from his ears and sent him to his knees, Beren kept reaching forward. "And I care not for your damnations!" Beren replied as he stretched out his hand, Luthien's song propelling him onward

It may have been a figment of his imagination, but, for a moment, he felt as if the light were being formed into the shape of a gentle, outreaching hand.

He reached out, towards the hand of light, and he heard under the song a question, asked in the voice of one whom he had not heard in over twenty years.

_What are our words, my son, that serves as our beacon in the darkness?_

With a final shout, Beren reached forward and grasped onto the light. "We Light the Way!"

* * *

**_The Fallen Son _**

As Eöl and the others dashed forward towards the horde, a great and warm light suddenly seemed to burst out from within the depths of the castle behind them.

From within strode forth Luthien and Beren, the latter holding his sword and…

The star.

As the human held up the light in his hands, tears unbidden came streaming down Eöl's face as he felt the manacles on his break free from his wrists, and shatter upon the ground.

Before the light of the star, the wraiths and horrors before them, and all the others that haunted the lands of Valyria… they all quailed in terror and fled before the awesome radiance of that light.

With a shout of jubilant exultation, Eöl raised his staff and the sword of his friend, as the light from the star swept out across the land. "Do you see, Tommen!? At long last! Your promise has come true!" Eöl cried out. "At long last! The star is free! My chains are undone! I am free! Can you see!?"

He then fell to his knees, still weeping, and whispered. "Can you see this… _father_?"

* * *

For a brief, tiny moment, that pulse of light could be seen and heard across all the globe, to all the areas explored and not yet discovered by man.

For the briefest of briefest moments, all upon the many lands felt a plethora of things alight within their souls and chests and hearts…

Joy unending

Sorrow unrelenting.

And hope, that rarest of all feelings.

Across the sky, a red comet soared.

* * *

No. This would not do.

**_"Cuivië, oh mightiest of your kin. The Light has been taken. Awaken, so that you may devour those who would dare to pilfer it from its rightful resting place. _**

**_ "Cuivië…_**

**_ "Carcharoth."_**

* * *

_For so long, it had slept, gorged on the flesh of small things and scaled and winged and large things. _

_It had slept through the great destruction, as the fire had rained down from the sky. _

_It slept. _

_Then, the master's voice awakened it, and it shook off the dust and debris of centuries. _

_It sniffed the air and caught the scent of trespassers... and the Light._

* * *

As they walked back through the island with a great leap in their steps, the companions all could not help but marvel at Beren's prize.

It was a large gem, about as thick as a man's clenched fist. Its shape and color defied explanation, and yet, all who looked upon it could tell, instinctively, that It was… perfect.

"What is it?" Bella asked, her mismatched eyes all but glued to it.

"Something that has caused countless a great deal of pain," Eöl murmured, whose eyes still shone with tears. A smile adorned his scarred face, and it was constantly twitching, like a hound who knew that he was about to be let loose from his leash at any moment.

"Indeed," Beleg said. "One of three, to be precise. But I thought the remaining two were lost…"

Beren kept his eyes about, as they neared the entrance through the woods to the beach where Eöl's boat was docked.

From within its depths, he thought he saw the briefest glimpse of movement-

"LOOK OUT!" Beren screamed as he tackled Beleg out of the way.

A moment later, Beren was yanked to the side, the jaws of the great beast that had spring from the woods clenched around his arm and the jewel.

Before anyone could react, the bust was barreling off.

Luthien screamed out in horror, and followed as best she could behind the beast's trail, followed by the others.

* * *

**_The Wanderer_**

Pain.

Such pain that Beren had never felt in such a long time. Pain, like a vice, tightening as the giant wolf-thing's jaws clamped tighter though the metal and leather of his vambrace, and the flesh and muscle of his arm.

He still held the strange jewel in his hands, and, through the haze of pain, he noted the mouth of the beast was starting to smoke.

Through its clenched jaw, the wolfish beast began to scream and grunt in agony.

The jewel. It was the jewel! Yet, the beast would not let go!

It kept running and began to thrash about as if Beren were a piece of knotted rope.

A small part of his mind that was still thinking rationally knew that is the moment the beast completely severed his arm, Beren was done for. He could already feel bone jutting through the skin and the remnants of his bracer.

He could not let it swallow the gem, and so he had to make it let go.

Through the pain, he grabbed onto the fur around the creature's face, and jostled the trapped arm about, until he felt it hook into the flesh of the wolf's mouth.

The beast yowled in fury through clamped jaws, it began to thrash harder about.

He felt his back slam against a rocky outcropping. Blood filled his mouth.

Even as he screamed in renewed pain through bloody lips, Beren managed to hold fast, even as the beast began to slam him about on the ground and in the side of the ruins.

He let go with his free, left hand, and ripped out a dagger, as he was slammed again, and again.

Over and over again, Beren rammed his dagger into the beast's neck and face, even as its fanged jaws clamped down harder upon his arm and hand. It even reared up on its hind-legs, and briefly tore at him with a great claw, and he felt his sides become torn to shreds. Through it all, he kept stabbing.

Then, through his wild flailing, he stabbed it straight into its left, and the beast's jaws let go. Through the air, he flew, and he hit the ground.

He felt so much pain. In a detached manner, he saw that his hand and forearm were attached to the rest of his arm by a single piece of sinew. His entire right side was drenched in blood.

He watched as the beast flailed about, as it clawed about at the dagger in its eye with its great claws.

Slowly, he staggered to his feet, _Sanya-Anguirel_ held in his remaining hand. The land was starting to spin, and there was darkness at the edges of his vision.

The beast then stopped its flailing, and set its remaining eye upon him. That one eye was full of rage behind the bloody mask he had made of its face.

Beren took a rattling breath. And then he took a step forward, as he raised his sword.

There comes a situation in a boar hunt when the boar knows it cannot escape. It is tired, wounded, and mad. It knows that it cannot escape, and so, it decides that if it is to die… it will take on of its would-be killers with it.

If one were to witness the final clash between Beren and the beast, they would be hard picked to discern which was the hunter, and which was the boar.

The beast roared, and charged forward…

* * *

**_The Nightengale_**

They followed the bloody trail and screams with great haste, Luthien in the lead. Terror and fear and worry propelled her forward

As they followed the blood around a bend of stone, they heard a bone-shattering roar!

They sped forward with greater haste and finished rounding the corner.

They came upon a clearing, and were but struck dumb by the scene that lay before them; the beast that had attacked Beren lay dead, its head severed cleanly from its shoulders, and the surrounding ground soaked with thick, black, steaming blood.

Lying against an outcropping of stone across from it lay Beren, covered in blood and wounds. His chest rose and fell with weak breaths, and his eyes were unfocused. Next to him lay his arm and hand, detached from his body. The hand still clutched the jewel, and his arm's stump dripped a steady stream of red. Across his knees rested his sword.

Luthien let loose a scream as she scrambled to his side. Slowly, with trembling hands, she took his head in her hands. "Beren? Sweet Beren. Please, stay with us! Stay with me, please!"

"We… we must bind his wounds," Beleg said, as he approached them, as he started to rip shreds from his cloak.

"What good will that do?" Bella asked, even as she and Vaario began to tear as well. "He seems not long for this world. Has he any blood left at all?"

Beren weakly angled his head up to look at Luthien, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. "Nightengale…"

"Don't speak, Beren, please, save your strength, save your strength," she said, as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

He weakly shook his head. "Please… Luthien. I'm… not long for this world. Take… the jewel. Finish… this quest. Return… home. Live… live and be happy."

No. No, no, no, no. Tears like small diamonds dripped down her dusty cheeks, as Beren's eyes slowly became unfocused. "You… are my light. Thank you… for letting me love you."

She had to fix this, she had to. Luthien leaned down, her hair all but enveloping him like a shroud of sable. "Wait for me," she whispered. "Wait for me. I will come for you. Please, wait for me."

Beren took a shuddering breath, he blinked once… and then his head dropped down, and he breathed no more.

Luthien let loose a great wail of despair, as she cradled his still body. Her cries echoed throughout the land, even across the sea. All their companions bowed their heads in sorrow.

Jorelle put a gentle hand upon Luthien's shoulder. "Please, my lady," she said in her soft voice. "We must leave. We cannot tarry here."

Luthien remained where she was, still weeping. "Wait for me," she whispered again. "Wait for me, my love."

Then… a strange feeling suffused her being, and she felt light and cold. The last thing she heard was the great beat of massive wings and a piercing cry, and then she closed her eyes…

* * *

_When she opened her eyes… she found herself in a great and cavernous hall. __The sable Hall had floors and columns of jet and was draped with dark vapours. It was lit only with a single vessel, placed in the center of the hall, and the __light of unseen stars. The far end was unseen, hidden by the shadows. _

_ She recognized this place, from the tales of the Lands to the West, told to her by her mother. _

_ The Halls of Awaiting. _

_ The Domain of Mandos. _

_ Without hesitation, she strode forward. "Beren!" she cried out. "Beren!" _

_ Had he heeded her? Had he waited for her? _

_ Fresh tears dripped down her eyes. "Beren! If you still linger here, then, please… speak to me!" _

_ "Luthien?"_

_ His voice made her look up in surprise, and there he stood before her; his body was whole and unbroken. He looked at her with surprise in his eyes. Surprise and concern. "Luthien. What… what are you doing here? How are you here?"_

_ In lieu of an answer, she wrapped her arms about his neck, and held him tightly and kissed him. He returned her embrace and kiss. _

**YOU HAVE ARRIVED.**

_The figure before them was great in stature and clad in robes of dark blue and midnight. _

_ Instinctively, Luthien and Beren bowed before this awesome figure. At their heart, all living things knew who, or what, this being was. It was only the nation of Beleriand who knew his name; Mandos, the Ruler of the Dead. When he spoke, it was in a voice of pure dispassion, for what need was there for the Lord of the Dead to know emotion?_

_ Mandos' eyes, which seemed full of stars, looked down upon the two. _

**YOUR COMING WAS FORETOLD IN THE WEAVINGS OF MY LADY'S TAPESTRIES. AS FOR IT'S PURPOSE… I AM AFRAID YOU WILL NOT ACHIEVE THAT WHICH YOU HOPED TO DO. BEREN HIGHTOWER HAS ALREADY LINGERED HERE FOR FAR LONGER THAN HE SHOULD. HIS FINAL REWARD, LIKE THE REWARD OF ALL THE SECONDBORN, LIES BEYOND. FOR WHAT PURPOSE MUST YOU MAKE HIM TARRY HERE?**

_"Because I love him. It is my fault that he is dead. I wish to undo my mistake, to have him returned to the land of the living."_

**AND DO YOU BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE OF OUR LORD'S CREATIONS WHO HAS LOST ONE THEY LOVE, DAUGHTER OF MELIAN? YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST, AND YOU WILL NOT BE THE LAST. WHY SHOULD YOU BE TREATED ANY DIFFERENT? WHY SHOULD YOUR PLEA BE RECOGNIZED AGAINST ALL THE OTHERS THAT I HAVE HEARD?**

_In reply, Luthien opened her lips… and sang a song. Unlike before in the land of the living, when her song had been one of hope, one of defiance against the darkness, this song was different. It was a song that embodied that which was the oldest ideal, the oldest feeling, in all of creation. It was that which had first helped to bring the creator's melody into existence, to help it suffuse all of his expanding creation with it; love. _

_ It was a song of love, and it echoed throughout all of creation, and her voice and dance did give it a great life. _

_ The Lord of the Dead stood silent as the song and dance drew to an arresting stop, and Luthien rejoined Beren's side. _

_ Then, he spoke. _

**TO THINK THAT SUCH A POWERFUL LOVE WOULD BE ABLE TO EXIST AND FLOURISH OUTSIDE OF VALINOR, OUTSIDE THAT OF THE HARMONY. YOUR SONG, IT HAS… MOVED ME, DAUGHTER OF MELIAN. **

** YOUR MAN COULD BE RESTORED TO LIFE. IT IS NOT AN IMPOSSIBILITY.**

**BUT A LIFE IS NOT A THING THAT CAN BE GAINED WITHOUT A COST, WITHOUT A SACRIFICE. **

_Luthien stood tall. "For him, for the man I love, I would sacrifice anything for him, for his life. I would sacrifice without hesitation."_

** AND WOULD YOU SACFRICE YOUR OWN ETERNITY, FOR HIM? WOULD YOU GIVE UP REINCARNATION IN ETERNAL VALINOR? WOULD YOU RELEASE ANY AND ALL CHANCE OF EVER SEEING YOUR KIN AGAIN? WOULD YOU LIVE A MORTAL LIFE, DIE A MORTAL DEATH, AND THEN JOURNEY AT YOUR END TO THE UNKNOWABLE REWARD THAT AWAITS ALL MORTALS?**

_Though tears began to run down her cheeks at the mention of those sacrifices, Luthien nodded. "Without hesitation-"_

_ "No!" Beren suddenly interjected, his cry rebounding against the walls. _

_Luthien turned to her love in surprise. "What are you saying, Beren? This could restore your life!"_

_He shook his head. "No. I don't deserve it! I am not worth such a sacrifice!"_

_He turned to look up into the face of Mandos. "Send her back. I refuse this second chance. I am unworthy of it. Just send her back, with her eternity intact. Let her live forever. Let her be free."_

_Mandos' head tilted, as if perplexed. _

**YOU WOULD REFUSE THE CHANCE TO LIVE AGAIN? TO LIVE, BREATH, AND AGE UNDER THE SKY? WHY?**

_"I would not have her sacrifice everything for me. To have her separated from her parents at the very end of all things… I could not do that to her. I have known the pain of separation from my own parents, and it was a thing done by my own actions and words. It is a pain that still burdens me to this day. Never upon even my worst enemy would I inflict such a pain, and especially not upon her. So please… send her back, to the land of the living, so that she may reunite with those who have loved her for far longer than I have and ever could."_

_Luthien looked with sorrow upon him, this man whom she loved. _

_ The robed figure was silent for a long moment, the sort of moment in which entire generations lived grew and died. Then, the lord of the dead spoke once again. _

**SHE WOULD SACRIFICE HER ETERNITY FOR A CHANCE FOR YOU TO RETURN TO LIFE. AND YET… IN TURN, YOU WOULD SACRIFICE YOUR SECOND CHANCE AT LIFE FOR HER OWN ETERNITY, SO THAT SHE MAY REUNITE WITH HER MOTHER AND FATHER, AND SO THAT SHE NOT BE SUNDERED FROM HER FAMILY AND REBIRTH IN VALINOR.**

**THIS IS A MOST UNEXPECTED CONUNDRUM. UNEXPECTED… AND UNPRECEDENTED… **

** I MUST PONDER THIS…**

** BUT, AS YOU WAIT… THERE IS ONE HERE WHO HAS BEEN WAITING TO SPEAK WITH YOU, BEREN HIGHTOWER. **

_ The Valar of the Dead then gestured, and before the two, light coalesced in the form of a woman. Luthien watched as Beren's eyes grew wide with recognition. _

_ Then, the woman spoke. _

_"Hello, Beren."_

_ The woman was about Beren's height and had slender curves. Her hair was a soft blonde, and her eyes seemed gentle and sad. _

_ "Ceryse…" he gasped out, tears in the corner of his eyes. "Is it truly you?"_

_The woman smiled. "It is, my brother." _

_A moment later, he embraced her, and wept into her shoulder, while she gently stroked his head like one would an infant. "Oh, my sister. Forgive me, forgive me," he cried._

_"There is nothing to forgive, sweet Beren, it was out of your control."_

_Nothing more was said for a long moment, as the siblings continued to embrace, and the only sound was of Beren's soft weeping._

_Then, his sister pulled away and cupped his bearded cheeks between slender hands. _

_ "You have borne this misplaced guilt for so very long, my little brother, and it has gnawed upon your soul like a starving animal. But you must let it go. You must let me go. Let me go… and forgive yourself." _

_ She then pulled away, and her form started to become ethereal. _

**IT IS TIME, CERYSE. YOUR FINAL JOURNEY AWAITS.**

_ The first wife of Maegor Hightower nodded at the Valar's proclamation and graced Beren with one final, kindly smile. "More than that, I ask that you live Beren. Live, and forgive yourself." _

_Before Luthien's love could reach out to his sister, Ceryse Hightower faded away into light, and that light then passed beyond the gates. _

_When it had been passed, Mandos looked down upon the pair, a strange expression dancing behind his somber, ageless, and timeless eyes._

** THE DECISION HAS BEEN MADE. TRULY… YOUR LOVE FOR ANOTHER TRANSCENDS ANY AND ALL THAT EVER HAS BEEN WITNESSED. YOUR LIVES Will BE RESTORED, AND LUTHIEN'S ETERNITY WILL REMAIN UNTOUCHED. BUT BE WARNED, FOR THERE WILL BE A COST, ONE THAT MUST BE PAID. IT IS THE ONLY WAY…**

_The Valar then spoke a final time, and the elf-maiden and the man both wept, even as they held the other tightly._

_ Then… there was naught but light, and the distant sounds of a grand and timeless melody… _

* * *

He felt warmth upon his face. Warmth, and pain.

He slowly opened his eyes, and the motion set more pain through his form.

It then occurred to him that he… he was not dead.

He gingerly raised his head and looked about. They were laying upon pallets, outside in a humble garden, and surrounded on all four corners by buildings carved from stone.

He tried to touch his head with his right hand… only to see empty air.

So… that had been real.

It all had been real.

He then felt a warmth on his left side, and looked to see… her.

Luthien. She lay on the pallet by his side, and her hand was entwined with his. Her hand felt warm and soft in his.

"You are awake, it would seem," came a soft and aged voice.

Beren raised his head a bit more and saw that he and Luthien were not alone in this garden room.

Seated across from them were two persons, a man, and a woman. The woman was of perhaps well over seventy years of age. Her skin was dark, and her white hair bound in a simple braid. In the center of her forehead was a red circle. She was garbed in simple robes of yellow, and a simple necklace of beads.

The man, who looked as ancient as the woman, was rather small in stature, with nut-brown skin weathered and wrinkled by the sun and elements. His eyes were wide, white, and unseeing. Like the woman, he wore simple robes of faded yellow and he sat cross-legged; his stick-like legs layered one atop the other. A long, full white beard hung down to the center of his chest like a waterfall.

The woman gave him a kindly smile, making her face crack into dozens of lines and wrinkles. "Good morning. You and the good lady have been asleep for almost a week now. But that is to be expected, after what you have been through."

"The… others?" Beren asked, through a dried throat.

"Worry not. They are here. Like you, they have been recuperating here. Their loyalty to you is quite commendable."

"Who… are you?"

"It is very fortunate that myself, Lla and the mighty ones were directed to you all," the young woman said. "We managed to rescue you all from those cursed lands. I am Patharti."

"Where… where are we?" Beren asked, his eyelids still heavy.

"Atop the red mountains of Dorne, green tiger," the old man then said, in a strong, accented voice, despite him not looking at anything. "You have endured a great trial, all of you, and yet you have survived. But now, you must rest. Once you are all well, and your wounds have healed enough, you will be taken safely home, to Beleriand. You still have the oath to keep, after all."

The woman stood up, walked over, and set a warm hand upon Beren's brow. "Now, you must sleep. Regain your strength."

Before Beren collapsed back into tired sleep and unconsciousness, he looked upon fair Luthien who lay beside him, her hand clasped in hers.

As he fell back into the world of sleep, faded memories of that great hall loomed in his mind, of the Lord of the Dead's pronouncement, and a tear ran down his face…

* * *

_52 AC_

_The Realm of Doriath_

For almost a year, the realm of Doriath had been sick with worry and mourning. Every atani, and every elf knew that grief and worry, for the lady Luthien had vanished over a year ago, and no one knew where she was. The king and queen were aggrieved most of all, and it felt as if winter had settled over the land.

As the king and queen held a somber court once again that day, the doors to the court were then thrown open.

All in the court stood as the human Beren Hightower weakly staggered in, Luthien at his side, and the rest of their companions trailing behind them, including Beleg, captain of the Marchwardens, and Jorelle, captain of the Atani guard. Clutched against his side was a bundle of bound cloth.

The human let his green eyes roam over the court before they met the silver eyes of the king. "I bid you greetings, mighty king. I apologize for taking so long to return from the task you set before me. I hope this will serve as enough proof," he said, as he laid the bundle at Thingol's great feet, and unrolled it. He revealed to all…

Impossible.

Thingol shot to his feet in shock at the sight before him.

It was a Silmaril.

One of the follies of Fëanor.

As the jewel shined in the light of the hall, everyone within fell silent.

The king of Doriath looked down upon the kneeling Beren and took in his lined face, and weary form. He looked upon the stump of the remnants of Beren's arm, and at the bandages that covered his form beneath his torn armor and clothing. He saw how his daughter embraced weary Beren. How Beleg stood by the human's side proudly. Then, he reached down one large and mighty hand and… lifted the human to his feet.

"Beren Hightower… I have misjudged you. Truly, you are of a more noble and mighty mien and valor then I had originally believed. For that, I beseech of thee your forgiveness. In addition, … I give you my blessing to marry my daughter."

In front of his court, the King of Doriath bowed his head before Beren. The human and his companions all looked upon the elvish king in wonderment.

The king gave a sad smile to his daughter and her love. "May your love be an inspiration to us all, and may it shine throughout the ages, until the days the stars themselves fall from the heavens."

The human gave a small smile, and then his head lolled back, and he slipped into unconsciousness, borne aloft only by Thingol's hand and Luthien.

"Take him to the Houses of Healing. Make sure he receives the utmost care," Thingol ordered. "And send word to Fingolfin of these developments."

* * *

_One year Later_

_53 AC_

_Oldtown_

**_The Lord of the Hightower_**

The Bells of Oldtown rung out in clarions, and all its denizens, from the learned Maesters of the Citadel to the beggars and the merchants and the Hightowers themselves awaited with hesitant trepidation. Strange ships had been sighted off the coast and approaching the docks. They bore the symbol of the star of Beleriand.

It was with great confusion and the aforementioned trepidation that Lord Manfred and his heir Martyn waited to the harbor of Oldtown alongside a council and gathering of the lords who swore fealty to the house of Hightower.

"What are your thoughts, my friends, my son?" He asked of his advisors and friends, as the ships drew closer still.

Lord Manderly, a large rotund man, as most of his house were wont to be, shrugged his fleshy shoulders. "I know not, my lord. But I would advise caution against any rash acts of aggression. The elves have given none in the realm no cause to act violently towards them, least of all from us."

"Lord Manderly raises a fair point," added Manfred's septon, a small, thin man with kind eyes named Gaerily. "The Seven teach us to welcome even those who are strange to us with open arms. But welcome should always be tempered with wariness. The elves have given no reason to be acted against, but, at the same time, they are not like us. They are different, _strange_."

The rest of the gathered lords and septons and maesters added in their own opinions.

Martyn remained silent.

Lord Manfred then signaled for the harbormaster to lower the sluice gate, so as to allow the ships to weigh anchor and dock.

All watched as the lead ship came to a rest at the dock. The prow and figurehead were carved in the shape of an eagle. The anchor was then lowered into the water with a splash.

The gangplank was lowered, and from it descended a face that The Lord of Hightower and his heir had not laid his eyes upon in over twenty years.

His youngest son had grown so very tall, and so very broad in the shoulders. But he seemed thinner and worn by weather and time and experience. He was garbed in clothes of such a fine make that any tailor would look upon them but once, and then burst into tears at such a marvelous example of their craft. Sheathed at his side was a sword that seemed of fine and perfect make. Meanwhile, his golden-brown hair was rather long and pulled back in a simple ponytail. To Manfred's shock, Beren's right arm ended in a stump above where the elbow should have been.

But his eyes… no longer were those green-grey eyes full of youthful defiance and anger. Now they were sadder, more knowing, and tempered. Manfred's own eyes briefly traced over the strange markings on the left side of his son's face.

At his side… was the most beautiful woman that the Lord of Oldtown had ever seen, with a long shower of ebony locks that cascaded down past her waist, and eyes that were a most startling and arresting grey. She was beautiful and perfect.

Her hand was entwined firmly with Beren's remaining one.

For a long moment, not a word was spoken, as father and sons stared at one another as if they were each looking upon a stranger. The only sounds were those of the dockyards, the ocean, and sea-breeze as it danced over their scalps and clothes.

"Father, brother," Beren said, as he slowly knelt before the Lord of Oldtown. "I… I humbly ask for your permission to return home, and I apologize for the words that sent me so far from it in the first place."

Lord Manfred Hightower looked upon Beren for a long moment and then bid him rise, and he warmly embraced him, alongside Martyn. "My son... Welcome home."

* * *

They talked long into the night, did Luthien, Beren, Martyn, and Manfred Hightower.

The next day, messengers and ravens and tidings were sent all across the Reach, the realm, and the streets of Oldtown.

The last son of the Lord of Hightower had returned. More than that, he was to be married, to an elvish bride….

* * *

_ **Beren Hightower, also known as Beren the Wanderer, is regarded as being one of the Reach's most legendary and beloved figures. Though he never ruled the Hightower, he became much beloved among the smallfolk and lords alike, traits that he passed onto his children, Dior Half-Elven and Aerin Silver-Hair. **_

**_ Born the youngest son of Mannfred Hightower by his second wife, Emeldir of House Manderly, whose own mother was of House Redwyne (and whose grandmother was of House Swann), it could be reasonably thought that, as the youngest of his Father's children, Beren would lead the relatively quiet and unimportant life of a third noble son. _**

**_That could not have been further from the truth. _**

**_ From a young age, it is said that Beren was willful and restless. He would often go out dressed in smallfolk garb, exploring Oldtown, sailing in the Harbor (and up and down the coast of the Reach), or even climbing about the buildings and leaping from rooftop to rooftop without a care for safety. He made friends easily and seemed to have few to no real enemies. Though, a note was also made of his temper and propensity to make rash decisions. _**

**_ From the notes of Hightower's maester at the time, young Beren excelled in the training yard and seemed all but to have been born with a sword in hand. He was stronger, taller, and more adept at combat then boys and men twice his age, including his elder brothers, Martyn and Morgan. Much was noted of Beren ability to effortlessly use a sword in either hand. Though, oddly enough, the young Beren held little taste for jousting and tournies. _**

**_ More than any of that, it was recorded that Beren held great love and loyalty to his elder siblings, especially towards his half-sister, Ceryse. _**

**_ The maester writes that the girl positively doted on her youngest sibling after his birth, and he in turn all but followed her around like a loyal hound its master. He fought duels with squires and knights who sought her hand, or who spoke ill of her. _**

**_ That did not change when she was betrothed to Aegon I's son, Maegor, who would go done in history as Maegor the Monstrous. _**

**_ Beren had heard much of Maegor's dark temper and foul deeds and pleaded with his father to not allow the marriage. The pleading soon turned to a quarrel of such tumultuous vigor and wrath that the very foundations of the Hightower itself seemed to but shake and groan in the wake of Beren's and his father's words. _**

**_ Though he would never reveal what exactly he said in that argument, all Beren would say was that the words spoken were 'ones that could never be unsaid.' _**

**_ He was then effectively banished from Oldtown, upon pain of death, no less. _**

**_ From there, he all but fled to Essos. _**

**_ In that eastern continent, he led a wild and tumultuous life; A mercenary under the Second Sons, leader of a small free company, and many others, including three years spent in the free city of Volantis, the First Daughter… Little is known of his time in Volantis, save that he had been a slave. However, judging from the stripes and tattoos that were described tattooed upon his left cheek and form, it can be assumed that he was most likely enslaved and conscripted as one of the city's tiger cloaks, or perhaps served under a member of the Tiger Party. What is known is that he somehow managed to escape. _**

**_ After almost twenty years, he returned to his ancestral home missing a hand, alongside a great procession of Grey Beleriand ships (in much the same manner as to how King Jaehaerys Targaryen I returned), and at his side was an elfin woman of unsurpassed beauty; Luthien of Doriath, whom he had wedded in Beleriand. It is said that his father, Lord Hightower, embraced his lost son and his new bride with tears in his eyes. At his father's behest, Beren wed Luthien in a grand second ceremony in the Starry Sept, before the cheering multitudes. The ceremony was attended by Jaehaerys I and his two queens, and even the High King of Beleriand, King Fingolfin. _**

**_ His wedded life with the Lady Luthien was a peaceful one and was said to have brought great joy through the Reach and the halls of the Hightower, for the couple became much loved by the smallfolk and highborn alike (perhaps too much, some might argue down the line…). _**

** _In his final days, when he had grown old, he and his bride (who remained beautiful and vital, as do all elves) set sail in a small boat towards the endless West._**

**_ They never returned. _**

**_From _****An Extensive History of the Kingdom of the Reach and its important personages,_ penned by Maester Farren_**

* * *

**_Night of the Green Tiger_**

**_ During the reign of King Aenys, rumblings came from across the sea that spoke of a massive Dothraki Horde. It was said to be almost a million strong and were led by a Dothraki Khal of unsurpassed might, charisma and, worryingly, intellect. This brute, named Drazo, was said to have been born under the red star, in the midst of a raging battle. The mystics and portents of the save horse-riders proclaimed him to be their messiah, 'The Stallion who Mounts the World.' They said that he would wash the world in a tide of blood and destruction and that he would even bring his endless hordes across the sea. He even sacked several cities, including New Ibben. Drazo was said to even employ siege weapons and tactics beyond simply overwhelming the enemy with endless charges. _**

**_ All watched with fear as he grew ever closer to the Free Cities, and all wondered who would be the first to fall. Sense dictated that it would be Volantis. _**

**_ But none would ever know. _**

**_ In the night, with his horde camped but three days away from the walls of Volantis, Drazo died. _**

**_ What is known, from second-hand accounts and hearsay, was that a lone figure crept into the camps, and, with a blade of pure midnight, slaughtered their way through, with whole groups of warriors falling before his blade, before slaughtering Drazo in his own tent. _**

**_ All that is known of this figure was that he bore green stripes upon his back and face, like those of a tiger's…_**

**_An excerpt from _****My Travels in Essos. _Penned by Maester Wullum_**

* * *

**_On the field of Ice and Fire, amidst the great and final battle of the invasion of the twisted forces of Morgoth, did Fëanor and his sworn enemy meet in battle. Each kiss of their weapons seemed to but shake the very foundations of the world itself, and all seemed to quail beneath their combined rage, which felt larger than a mountain. _**

**_ None dared to draw near this fated duel. _**

**_ All who witnessed it spoke of the first son of Finwë growing to match Morgoth in height and mass, becoming like unto a fiery giant full of wrath and blazing rage. _**

**_ For what seemed like millennia, but could have only been minutes and moments, their blows were exchanged, each louder than thunder, and their speed quicker than that of the swiftest lightning. _**

**_ But alas, though Fëanor was among the mightiest of the Elves, his wrath and might was still no match for Morgoth who, though fallen, had still been first in might and power among his Valar brethren when the Creator first sang all of existence into being._**

**_Eventually, Fëanor's limbs tired. _**

**_ Grond's dreadful head smashed against Feanor's shield, shattering it, and then crunched against Fëanor's arm and chest. _**

**_ Yet, even as he lay dying from Morgoth's blow, his chest and arm and lungs shattered, Fëanor did summon up the last of his great and mighty strength, and so did he strike Morgoth a most grievous and great and deep cut across his chest and face and brow with Magol, the first sword. The strength of the blow did knock loose from that terrible brow the Iron Crown and the Three Simarils. One of those gems fell and came to rest in Feanor's hand as he died upon that field of ice and fire, but the other two, still set within the crown, were then taken away by Morgoth's fell and evil Servants, along with the still form of their dread master. _**

**_ So then did Feanor, son of Finwë, die, with a Simaril clutched in his hand, one-third of his dread Oath fulfilled. _**

**_ Despite his crimes, Fingolfin decreed that his elder half-brother be buried in a gentle glade, perhaps so that he could know in death the peace that he never truly knew in life. _**

**_ Fingolfin took up Magol as one of his own weapons alongside his sword Ringil, and the Simaril was set into Fingolfin's crown, a burden that he took upon himself, with two empty sockets, both as a hope and a promise. _**

**_ So then began Beleriand. Kingdom of the misty shores and the Grey ships. _**

**_ Upon his ascension, Fingolfin bid his nephews, the sons of Feanor, to him, and asked that they forswear their terrible and Dread Oath. Despite the two kinslayings, they were still of his blood, and he still held them, dear, to his heart._**

**_Maedhros, who had lost his hand to the black and frosty touch of one of Morgoth's fell minions in an attempt to reach his father, and Maglor, who bore great sorrow in his heart for all that had been done, were the first to do so, with tears in their eyes, and were followed by the youngest as well. _**

**_ Curufin and Caranthir, the former being most cherished in Fëanor's heart and the latter being the most alike in temperament, spat upon Fingolfin's offer, for they blamed him for their father's demise. It is said that they took their followers, and went East, across the narrow sea. They were not followed and vanished from sight and memory. _**

**_ Celegorm, his heart heavy with the many injustices he and his brothers had committed, retreated with his companion Huan, the Hound of Valinor, into the great woods, rarely ever emerging, and living solitary existences._**

**_From _****The Annals of Beleriand. _Penned by Pengolodh, Loremaster of Gondolin, and recounted in _Tales of Wrath And Sorrow: A Translation of the Elven Histories, _by Archmaester Hull_**

* * *

** A/N: Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I hope you found it all to be somewhat enjoyable. I am not the best at writing romance, truth be told, but I think I did my best. Thank you for all the love and support you have heaped upon this story so far. **


	7. Chapter 7

A Song of Rings, Tears, and Wrath chapter 6: Meetings, Marriages, New Beginnings, and the Queen in the east.

_53 AC_

_The Red Keep_

**The Elf-Friend**

Jaehaerys read over the missive several times. "Beren Hightower? Who is this man?"

Lord Massey tilted his head. "The fourth son of Lord Hightower. It was said that he was banished over twenty years ago in the wake of Maegor's marriage to the late lady Ceryse Hightower. It was thought that he had died in Essos. Evidently… he lived."

"Indeed," the king said, "and it would seem that all are invited to his wedding to the Lady Luthien."

"It is rather a shock that the King of Doriath would allow an outsider to marry his only daughter," Celeborn said. "Thingol is not known for his trusting nature in regards to anyone outside his kingdom. This Beren… he must have made quite the impression."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Perhaps. So, my Small Council… what are we to do with this?"

Lord Rogar shrugged his brawny shoulders. "Well, I see no reason why we can't attend. I'm all for a good celebration."

"Any reasons beyond that?"

Lord Tybalt-Tuor then spoke. "Well, I for one think this to be quite the opportunity politically."

"Go on," Jaehaerys said.

"This is a marriage that will firmly cement the bonds between Westeros and Beleriand. While it would have been more politically fortuitous if the marriage had been between a Targaryen and a child of Fingolfin, but this is still a grand opportunity. If you and High King Fingolfin were to cement at the wedding the grand treaty that we have been brewing here, then all the better."

He leaned back in his seat, carelessly setting his feet upon the table. "Plus, as Lord Rogar mentioned, there is always very little excuse needed for a good and fun celebration."

"Lord Tybalt-Tuor's point is sound," Lord Celeborn said. "There is little reason as to High King Fingolfin not attending this wedding. It would be his own way of cementing further the bonds of friendship he shares with Thingol, as well as those he wishes to forge with this kingdom."

"Then it is agreed, my lords," said Jaehaerys. "It will seem that we all have a wedding to attend to."

As the meeting drew to a close, the Lords Massey, Lannister, and Velaryon all left, until only Maglor, Jaehaerys, Celeborn, and Russandol were left.

Jaehaerys turned to his lord of Whispers. "Lord Maglor? You did not say a single word throughout the meeting. Have you anything to report?"

The elf looked upon Jae with his sunken, sorrowful eyes, and then nodded. "Indeed, I do, but I thought it best that only trustworthy ears were to hear it."

"Well, what is it?"

The Lord of Whispers steepled his fingers. "My strings have revealed an odd little melody; your sister has joined herself in matrimony to the second son of the Lord of Far Isle."

That was the last news Jaehaerys had been expecting to hear.

* * *

**The Queen of the Moon**

Alys looked up in surprise at Jaehaery's words from where she lay by Delora on the bed, her head and hair being stroked by her fellow queen. "Androw Farman?" she asked, hands on her great and bulging womb.

The little one within gave her a small kick. Cheeky little thing.

Jaehaerys nodded from where he lay next to Delora, his hand stroking her equally bulging belly. Their bed was quite large. "That is correct. The second son of Lord Marq Farman of Fair Isle. Apparently, they were only married about a day or two ago."

"But aside from being Marq Farman's second son, what do we know about him, this Androw?" Alys inquired.

"Little, though I confess I was so struck by the news that my mind filtered out anything else that was said by Lord Maglor," Jae admitted with a bit of embarrassment.

Delora let loose a little sound from her throat as she continued to stroke Alys' head. "One of my new ladies-in-waiting is from Fair Isle. From what she told me in gossip, Androw is comely enough and fair in temperament, though the rumor is that he can hardly read or write. Rather unusual for a lord's son, let alone for your sister. He is also ten years her junior."

Jaehaerys nodded at that. "I do agree, it is somewhat odd. Though, Rhaena did hide from Maegor on Fair Isle for a long while. It is not inconceivable that she and this Androw may have struck up a connection of sorts. A bit like something out of a storybook, perhaps, but it has happened before, none-the-less."

He then shrugged. "Still, I find that this is wonderful news. She deserves some happiness, after all. We shall have to have some gifts dispatched to her. As long as he treats her kindly, then there is little else to consider, I suppose. Do you not agree, my queens?"

Alys and Delora both gave out hums of agreement, and their talk went on to other things, like the approaching marriage in Oldtown, and prospective due dates of their babes.

In the back of her mind, Alys thought that Jaehaerys' mother, as well as Rhaena's daughters, would not be as accepting of this news as they had been.

That thought later disappeared from his mind when, in the middle of the night, the queens awoke from birthing pains…

* * *

**The Queen of the Uncrowned**

_Fair Isle_

_3 days later_

There was a moment, right after lovemaking, that left a person feeling content, heady, and happily spent.

It was a moment when it felt as if your body was all aglow with the warmth of the sun itself, and all you wanted to do was just lie and laze about with the one that had helped you to reach that particular peak.

It was a feeling that Rhaena treasured most greatly, truth be told, both receiving it, and bequeathing it.

With a happy sigh, she turned to her companion, whose head rested upon her stomach, as they, in turn, lay naked and sprawled and sweat-soaked upon the bed.

She ran her fingers across a scalp covered by flaxen hair, hair that she could run her fingers through all day, and so Rhaena sighed in contentment.

"Copper for your thoughts, love?" asked her companion.

Rhaena chuckled, as she continued to stroke her head like she would a beloved pet. "Nothing much. Just… feeling happy."

"Well then, that, in turn, makes me happy."

Her lover pulled up from Rhaena's stomach, and the first granddaughter of Aegon locked eyes with a face framed by long, flaxen hair, and one that was tanned from long hours under the sun.

Elissa Farman smiled a grin of perfect teeth, and Rhaena had never seen anything more beautiful.

As she moved to kiss her lover, it occurred to the Rhaena that there was nowhere else she would rather be.

And she was sure that there was nowhere else that Elissa would rather be.

Right?

A knock at the door interrupted their happy stupor. "Queen Rhaena?" came Faircastle's Maester.

With quick motions and a groan of exasperation, Elissa and Rhaena slipped into their robes, and then Rhaena answered the door.

Faircastle's Maester, a slight and reedy man named Smike, diplomatically kept his face fixed towards Rhaena's eyes, and ignored Elissa's presence in the room.

"Yes?" she asked, a bit irritably. "What is it?"

He swallowed once. "The Queens have given birth. The realm has two new, healthy princesses."

* * *

It had been a long three days, and many, many hours of intensive labor.

As a king and a husband, Jaehaerys had felt even less than helpless. The Grandmaester, Lady Aredhel, and the midwives had been the only ones allowed in. So, he had to contend with waiting outside the room, attended by only Celeborn and Russandol.

Each scream was a stab at his heart, and a dagger betwixt his ribs, no matter what words of comfort Celeborn told him.

Jaehaerys had heard too many tales of women dying in childbirth, whether from blood loss or fever or other such complications.

Then, after a few more loud screams, all fell silent… save for two loud wails, infant cries. out had strode Lady Aredhel, proud and tall despite the blood staining her healer's shift. She gave a small bow. "Your Grace. It is my pleasure to have helped welcome your daughters into the world. Would you like to see them?"

He would later admit that he had all but scrambled into the birthing room, kingly presence and dignity be damned.

The room stank of blood and other scents, but that mattered not to him. All that matter was what was in front of him.

In the twin beds lay his queens. Both looked sweaty and spent, and they had never looked so divine to him as at that moment.

His eyes were then drawn to the bundles cradled in their arms.

The two queens both looked up to meet his eyes, and both smiled tired radiant things.

With trembling hands, he reached forward towards his daughters.

His and Delora's daughter had dark skin like her mother. Her eyes were like two lilacs, and her hair was dark, save for a long stripe of silver-gold over her left brow.

Meanwhile, her sister, the union of him and Alysanne, was pale, and her hair was a faint silver. Her eyes were as tiny, shining amethysts.

His hands trembled as he reached out and stroked their heads, and as he held them each. They were so tiny.

"Are they not lovely?" Alysanne said, as she and Delora reached out and clasped hands.

"Our little queens," said Delora.

No, they were more than lovely, in Jae's eyes.

Their daughters, the fruits of their unions.

They were perfect.

They were perfect.

At that moment, the King of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros wept in joy and knelt before his queens.

* * *

_The joyous news spread through the realm, intermingling with the forthcoming Hightower Marriage._

_For at least a day, all celebrated the births of Nymeria and Danaerys Targaryen, the royal hatchlings._

_Long live the House of Targaryen._

_Long live Jaehaerys, First of His Name, and the Queens of the Moon and the Sun._

_Of course, there were some who were not overly fond of this news…_

* * *

**The White Lady**

"No! It's not fair!" screamed little Rhaella.

A moment later, a mirror smashed against the wall, making Aerea flinch from where she sat on the twin's shared bed.

Aredhel remained impassive as the elder twin continued to rant and rave about. "I'm the heir! Me! Not some stupid babies! It's not fair!"

Aredhel looked down at her and put her hands upon the girl's shoulders. "Rhaella. Please, stop this. This anger will not change what has happened."

Rhaella looked up at her, angry tears dripping from her eyes. "But… why does it have to be like this, auntie?"

Aredhel sighed, and drew the girl into a hug, holding her firm. "Oh, my dear. The sad truth is that life is not inherently fair. It is a long, winding thing, comprised of heartbreaks and downfalls and sorrow and other such unpleasantness."

"Then what's the point, aunt Aredhel?" Rhaella sobbed. "Why can't it be fair!?"

Aredhel pulled back for a moment and looked the little girl square in the eye. "Because, without that sorrow, the unfairness, and such? Then you would not learn to treasure the good things."

"The-the good things?"

Aredhel nodded. "That's right. Think about it; without rain, would we treasure the clear days? Without cold, would the warmth of the sun and fire not be as needed? And, without sorrow, would happiness not be as sought after, or enjoyed?"

"But it's not fair," Rhaella repeated in a small voice.

Aredhel nodded. "Perhaps, but that feeling shall pass, my dear. Your anger will dissipate. Besides, look upon the bright side. You now have to new, beautiful little cousins, cousins who will need help to grow and learn about the world around them.

"Who better to do that, then you, dear heart?" she then said, with a gentle smile.

Rhaella sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and flung her arms around Aredhel's neck.

Once the twins had finally settled down, Aredhel departed their room and into the hallway, where Ulrick stood waiting patiently.

"I marvel at your ability to weather the tantrums of that little wild hellion," her knight said, as she slipped her arm around his, and they started to walk.

"She is not a malicious child, my love," Aredhel said. "Merely upset. Her world has been overturned. She is just adjusting."

"Aye," Ulrick said. "Just as she was no doubt 'adjusting' when she and her little pack of friends set buckets of water over the doors to the quarters of the Royal Guardians."

Russandol had been nonplussed at that.

"She will get better," asserted Aredhel, though she could not help but let a small laugh at the memory of tall, austere Russandol drenched in water.

The pair strode outside to one of the terraces of the Red Keep and were greeted by a blanket of stars.

"It's a wonderful night, isn't it?" Aredhel asked.

"It is," Ulrick agreed. "The stars never lose their luster, I've found, no matter where one might find themselves in the world. Are these stars like those in your old homeland?"

"They are the same, yet different in small ways," replied Aredhel. "Their overall permanence was a comfort to me, in the early, dark days. Though, I could ask the same of you. Are these stars like yours, in Starfall?"

"And my answer would be the same as yours, my lady," Ulrick answered. "Though it may be a personal bias on my part, the stars that shine over Starfall are always bright and radiant beyond compare… and yet are pale and wan things when I gaze upon you."

Aredhel smiled. "And for what purpose do you seek to charm me this night, my knight of stars."

"So that I may ask of you a most important question, great Aredhel," the Sword of the Morning replied.

Aredhel turned from the stars and towards her love with a question dancing behind her grey eyes.

In response, Ulrick took her hands in his. "Since the moment we met, all that time ago upon the docks of Sunspear, my heart was no longer my own. The moment our eyes met; it had become yours. I could think of no one better to whom it could be given ownership, truth be told, and most glad I would be were you to keep it until the end of days."

Ulrick Dayne knelt upon one knee and bowed before his lady love. "That being said, I must now ask of you my question, witnessed by these countless stars; Lady Aredhel, keeper of my heart… will you permit me the honor of marrying you, so that I may one day show you the stars of Starfall?"

In response, all Aredhel could do was pull him to his feet, and then did she kiss him soundly upon the lips. "A thousand times yes, my Knight of Stars," she whispered into his lips, as a tear rand down her face. "As many times as there are stars in the sky."

Up above, those selfsame stars seemed to dance merrily in the sky.

* * *

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the two months after the royal births came and went, and all of Oldtown, indeed, all of the Reach and the realm, prepared for the coming wedding.

From the number of cooks and foodstuffs and smiths and architects and silks and seamstresses and tailors and such that were being brought in, it would be an affair that was sure to be on par with the Royal Wedding of the Sun and The Moon two years past.

Seven days of celebration and feasting and merriment, under the shadow of the Hightower, and throughout all of Oldtown.

The great and powerful of the Reach and the other kingdoms were invited.

Houses Redwyne, Tyrell, Beesbury, Connington, Baratheon, Swann, Darklyn, Velaryon, Arryn, Royce, Westerling, Harroway, Tully, Reyne, Lannister, Marbrand, Dayen, Qorgyle, Blackwood, Bracken, and countless others. The crème de la crème of the Kingdoms would be in attendance at this momentous wedding.

The word even spread beyond the boundaries of Westeros, to the shores of Essos and the Free Cities, for foreign dignitaries had been invited as well… though Volantis and Lys had been, for reasons unknown, left uninvited.

* * *

_2 months later_

_Oldtown_

_Hall of the Hightower_

**The Elf-Friend**

Having only been king for roughly two years, Jaehaerys and his queens had not had the occasion to visit the seat of House Hightower. But, being a learned man, Jae had read plenty of literary descriptions of Oldtown, the Home of the Starry Sept, and the Citadel of the Maesters.

Everything looked exactly as had been described in those books; every winding street was cobbled; every building and bridge and gate was crafted from stone and marble. They cit was a veritable labyrinth of crisscrossing alleyways, narrow crookback streets, and bustling markets, thought today, those markets were quieted.

Then, there was the Hightower itself, a grand and mountainous tower crafted of white and grey and black stone, and it was crowned with a great and fiery beacon.

At the moment, the flames were white.

Jae and Alys and Del had arrived with the attending members of the court several days ago. Measures were in place to keep the kingdom running until their return, but all knew where they would be so that the King could still hold court when needed. They were given quarters and hosted sumptuously by Lord Hightower and his family.

To Jae and Alyssane's happy surprise, Rhaena, her new husband Androw, and her good-sister Elissa had come as well, alongside the Lord of Fair Castle and some of Rhaena's other companions.

Oddly enough, Jae and his queens had yet to meet Lord Hightower's youngest son Beren, or his bride-to-be.

Still, Jae and his queens were not idle and toured the city nearly every day. And every day, Jae had felt awed at everything.

Here was the seat of the Faith of the Seven; here was the center of learning in all the Six Kingdoms.

Here was a city of history, where more was yet to be made.

Every day, more and more banners and lords and their retinues arrived, whether by sea or land.

Then, on the fifth day, the bells rang out through the city.

From the balcony of their apartments in the Hightower, Jaehaerys and Alyssane and Delora watched as a small fleet of grey ships sailed towards the docks of Oldtown.

Beleriand had arrived.

All the assembled lord and ladies waited in the open courtyard of the Hightower as the Grey ships of Beleriand docked at Oldtown for the second time in recorded history.

At the front stood Jae, his queens, Russandol with Blackfyre at his waist, several Royal Guardians, several septons and septas, maesters, and the majority of House Hightower, including the bride and groom of the coming wedding.

Luthien, the bride, was indeed as beautiful as described. Jae was secure enough to admit that, as were Alysanne and Delora.

Beren Hightower was a tall man, with his most distinguished features being the strange tattoos upon the left side of his face, as well as his missing right arm.

He seemed polite, but also a bit cold, by Jae's reckoning. Especially when he met with Jae.

As the gates to the courtyard were opened, an atani herald was the first to walk through them. He was a tall figure with a bald head, a bare face, and a large, barrel-like chest. The rest of him seemed equally muscled. Upon his tabard were two symbols; on the right was the star of Fingolfin, and upon the left was what Jae recognized as the white star and sun of the kingdom of Doriath.

The Herald looked over the assembled Lord and Ladies of the Six Kingdoms. Then, he took a deep breath, and spoke, in the accented voice that all the atani of Beleriand held.

"Presenting, King Elu Thingol, father of the bride, husband of the Lady Melian, and known also as Greycloak, Sovereign of Forests, King Greymantle, Lord of Beleriand, and King of the _Teleri, Atani, Norsa, _and_ Sindar_ of the Kingdom of Doriath and its many settlements and cities!"

Then, from behind him emerged such a figure that all felt awed and slightly afraid at the sight of him, and all the sounds of the city faded away suddenly.

He was mighty and towering in height, such, that his head would nearly brush the ceiling of any great hall, and he looked comfortably above many buildings of Oldtown. He was dressed in dazzling finery and silks tailored to his size, and his fingers were adorned with flittering rings, each as large as a large man's fist. Upon his brow was a silver crown, as silver as his hair and eyes.

Jae felt slightly overwhelmed by the size of the King of Doriath, the father of the bride. He dwarfed even Russandol by a great many feet! Though he walked with a mighty grace, he made but little sound and tremor as he walked.

The king of Doriath looked upon them all with ageless silver eyes, eyes that softened when he looked upon his daughter and her chosen groom.

As the Sovereign of Doriath and his retinue of elves and atani stood in the courtyard of the Hightower, the herald then spoke a second time. "Presenting to all the Lady Galadriel! Lady of Lórien, Lady of Light, Lady of the Wood, and Lady of the Galadhrim!"

The lady was a familiar figure to Alyssane and Jaehaerys, and she was exactly as they remembered; she was taller than most men of Westeros. Her hair was of deep gold, and her gown, though holding little adornments, was wholly of white and fine make. All who looked upon her felt awed and humbled. A majesty and kindness seemed to radiate from her, and it lifted the spirits.

All watched as she sent a smile full of love to her husband, Celeborn. It was a love that all could feel, deep and profound.

Then, the herald spoke for the third time.

"Presenting to all assembled, High King Fingolfin! Son of Finwë and Indis; Lord of The Grey Fleet, King of the North, High King of the _Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Laiquendi, Silvan,_ and _Atani,_ and King and Sovereign of All the Nation of Beleriand!"

At that, the silence seemed to deafen and deepen, as Fingolfin emerged into the courtyard, alongside a small and veritable battalion of guards and courtiers.

Though he was much shorter than the king of Doriath, the High King of Beleriand was still taller than all the humans present, and his presence was no less mighty and grand, if not more so.

His clothes were also fine beyond measure, and his adornments, though simpler, were grand and glittering. Upon his brow was a silver circlet, though it was not like the one that Jaehaerys and Alyssane had seen during their time in the nation of the Elves.

Accompanying him was an equally impressive retinue of atani and elves, including many that Jae recognized.

The High King strode forward and stopped a mere few feet from the assembly of the Westerosi lords.

All remained silent.

Privately, Jae wondered if any of the Lords and Ladies had fainted faint, if only from the sheer _presence_ that the elven Sovereigns and their fellows and ladies radiated.

Later, he would discover that some had.

Then, Jaehaerys and his queens stepped forward, alongside Lord Celeborn, and the Lord of the Hightower and his youngest son and his elven bride.

All watching seemed to hold their breath as the two groups shortened their distance.

"High King Fingolfin," Jae said in a clear voice, as he extended his hand towards the elf who had kept him and his family safe. "I bid you welcome to the Six Kingdoms."

"I am most touched by your welcome, King Jaehaerys," came Fingolfin's reply, as their hands clasped tightly.

When the royal greetings were given, Lord Hightower gave a respectful bow. "Sovereigns of Beleriand. It gladdens me that you have chosen to grace the wedding of my son with your august presence. Welcome to Oldtown."

"And we accept your welcome as well, as the future family to my fellow monarch, Thingol," said Fingolfin.

"Indeed," said Thingol, and his voice was mighty as his frame. "I too am gladdened to be here, so that this union may be held with all its ceremonies and joys, and so that I may see the home of my future good son. Now I have, and this is indeed a grand and mighty place.

"But most importantly, my heart is brimming with joy that my beloved daughter is happy and that her love's family has accepted her with open arms," the towering figure concluded.

At that, the tension vanished, and all the parties converged to greet and make polite conversation.

Fingolfin set a gentle hand upon Jae's shoulder, while Lady Galadriel embraced first her husband, and then Alysanne, and even Delora, who seemed blushing before her presence.

"It is good to see you again, Jaehaerys," said Fingolfin.

"As it is to see you, my friend," said Jae.

"Indeed. We have much to celebrate, and much to discuss," Fingolfin stated. "Of course, there is one other here to see you and Queen Alyssane as well."

"Who?"

"That would be me, young Jaehaerys," came an aged voice that Jae had not heard in a great while.

Jae and Alys turned, and beheld a familiar grey figure, leaning upon his staff, and cloaked and garbed with grey.

Jae felt another grin spread across his face, though Alys beat him to the punch in hugging the familiar figure. "Gandalf!" Jae exclaimed, any and all kingly pretensions abandoned for a moment in the face of a happy reunion.

The old man laughed as he embraced the king and queen. "Ah, my little dragons. It does my aged heart good to see you again, and so grown and royal, no less."

"And it does our hearts good in turn to see you well," Alys said.

"Indeed," Jae said, as they all headed into the hall of the Hightower. "You look the same as I remember you. Are you eternally a grey man?"

Gandalf chuckled at that. "Oh, time is a thing that catches up to all of us, even perpetually old wanderers like myself."

"But what are you doing here?" Alys asked.

Gandalf's blue eyes twinkled. "Well, I am here for a plethora of reasons. First, to witness this rather momentous wedding. Second, to see you and a few old friends."

* * *

**The Lord of Cats**

Tybalt-Tuor Lannister had met many lords and great figures over the course of his thirty-odd years of life, including the Sealord of Braavos, the Prince of Dorne, the Magisters of Lys, and Volantis, and many others.

All paled when compared to these elf sovereigns and lords and ladies.

Then, as he looked and canned about the crowds…That was when Tuor saw her.

She was tall, and beautiful, with long, golden blonde hair. Everything about her gave weight to the idea of _graceful_, from the points of her lovely ears to the soles of his feet.

For a moment, he could have sworn that their eyes met, green to grey, and he felt as if all time had stopped.

Then, she was lost in the polite crowd, and time began again.

"Roy… I am entranced," said he to his ever-present protector.

"You're entranced?" asked Roy.

"I am entranced," replied Ty.

Even when the king and ruler of Beleriand drew him into their discussions about trade between nations, the sight of that elfin maid could not be expunged from the mind of the Lord of Cats….

* * *

_The Next Day_

The city of Oldtown was abuzz at the arrival of the elves, and it remained abuzz through the taverns and inns and, of course, even the brothels.

It remained abuzz all through the night, and then until the following morning.

The morning of the wedding.

* * *

**The Returned Son**

As per what was planned, all the important guests were set into open carriages, fancy things of leather, and silk.

There was a small issue with Thingol walking, but the King of Doriath bore it in good stride.

They all rode in a procession throughout the city and disembarked at the gates to the Starry Sept.

The pathway to the Sept was strewn with flowers, and flanked on either side by curious and cheering multitudes. She was dressed in a grand, yet simple, gown of blue and grey and white, whilst he was dressed in a smart uniform of both his House's colors, and green.

Luthien waved to the crowds graciously, and each smile she flashed to the multitudes only made the cheering grow further.

Beren felt overwhelmed.

Truly, he had never been one for large crowds. It made him feel uneasy, restless and reminded him of the God's Eye, and the Slave markets of Volantis. Yet, Luthien's presence kept him settled, secure.

They walked, flanked by crowds and guards, and their families, up the steps towards the Sept, with its black marble walls and arched windows. The doors were tall, though Thingol and Melian had to duck slightly to get inside.

Inside, the rest of the guests made their way to their seats, while Beren and Luthien ascended the steps to the top of the dais, upon which there stood an aged septon and an austere elf with a kindly face.

At the foot of the dais, on either side stood two persons. On Beren's side stood Beleg, resplendent in his shining male and uniform, and Varrio, dressed in an equally smart uniform of red and green that made his grey skin and flame tattoos stand out. Emblazoned on his tabard was the chosen heraldry that he and Bella had picked out; a red ax beneath a gold star, on a field of blue.

On Luthien's side stood Bella, dressed in leathers and tabard (she refused to wear a dress), and Jorelle, who was garbed in a uniform that seemed a seamless combination of armor and gown.

All watched as King Thingol knelt slightly, and set upon Beren's shoulders a necklace of gleaming emeralds, and as Luthien and Beren then exchanged simple rings of shining silver upon the other's fingers.

The kindly elf then raised her hands for silence. As silence fell upon the room, she then spoke, with a voice smoothed worn by experience.

"Friends, family, and other lords and ladies and acquaintances… Today, we are gathered here to witness a momentous and wonderful event; the conjoining of two souls into a single, beautiful thing, molded and bound by love, devotion, and happiness, with a small dosage of contentment for good measure…."

* * *

**The Elf-Friend**

As the elf spoke, her words seemed to invoke a warm feeling in Jae's breast, and he found his hands reaching out to grab those of his two queens.

They all held each other's hands, tightly.

"In our lives, whether we be elf or man, it is easy, so very easy, to forget or downplay the importance that love holds. To dismiss it as a fanciful thing, fit only for tales and pretty songs. And yet, without that love, life can seem… unfulfilled…."

* * *

**Queen of the Uncrowned**

As the knife-ear spoke, Rhaena could not help but let her eyes be drawn to her younger sibling, their cousin, and their shared whore.

More specifically, to how tightly Alyssane gripped the dornish woman's hand so warmly, so _lovingly_.

Meanwhile, Androw had to be seated between her and Elissa, who was listening attentively.

As the elf droned on, Rhaena glanced about to the rest of Jaehaerys' attending court. She saw the female one, Aredhel, with her two daughters. The little things seemed to hang about her like _she_ was their mother, not her.

She clenched her fist tightly but remained seated.

"… It is through love that we can grasp at a deeper meaning of all that lies about us. It is through love that we can grow, that we can become… complete."

* * *

**The Returned Son**

"… And that feeling of completeness is what we are here today to celebrate, embodied here before us in Beren and Luthien."

She reached out, and gently grasped Luthien and Beren's hands. "May this love, may _your_ love, be an example for all to know and follow, and may it ever shine brightly."

The elf gave a final smile and then stepped back.

Then, the aged septon cleared his aged throat and took a step forward. "Beren of House Hightower, do you take this woman to be your wife, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?"

Beren nodded, his eyes not straying from Luthien's own. "I do. Now and forever."

The septon turned to Luthien. "And do you, Lady Luthien of the house of Thingol, take this man to be your husband, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?"

Luthien nodded. "From here until evermore," she said, her voice as lovely as she was.

The septon nodded. "Then, by the power invested in me, by the laws of gods and men, you are now bound together as husband and wife. One body, one soul, and one love!"

Beren looked at Luthien, he looked into her eyes, and, as always, the world seemed to slow to the most minute of crawls. "I am not worthy of you, _Tinuviel," _he whispered as they leaned towards one another.

She looked upon him and then cupped an elegant hand against his bearded face. "We are worthy enough for each other, my love."

He held her hand to his face, and she leaned towards him, and their lips met.

When they kissed, the entirety of the Sept burst into cheers and applause, as the bells of Oldtown rang throughout the streets.

Man, and elf, now forever bound in marital union.

It was said that the cheers echoed throughout all of the Reach.

After that, they head back down out of the Sept, and the wedded couple was promptly showered in flower petals and more cheers and happy tears.

* * *

**The Avenger**

As the bells continued to ring, there were a few that were not celebrating.

It was a small group of rough, cloaked and hooded men, all dressed in boiled leathers studded with metal. They were all spread throughout different positions in the city.

Their leader's garb and armor and armaments were of finer make than most, especially the crossbow he carried hidden beneath the cloak in an oiled canvas.

The weapon was a beauty, created with Yi Ti and valyrian methods. It was crafted from goldenheart wood.

He had practiced with it for a long time, enough to knock an apple off a slave's head at over 300 paces, at least. The same applied to burying it between the slave's eyes.

That would not change today.

Today, he would get revenge.

Silently, he took his position on the rooftop as the bells rang.

Oredo gripped the stock of his crossbow tightly and peered down along the sight of his weapon.

As the carriage drew closer, he cranked back the bow's mechanism, and the bolt nocked into place.

He sighted down along the bolt once again and took a short series of long, calming breaths.

Revenge, for his family, for the insult _he _perpetuated by living.

A footstep echoed behind him.

As he turned, he saw a club smash into his-

* * *

As the assailants went about their work, the wedding procession went about unencumbered, and the bell and cheers continued to ring out….

* * *

**The Sorrowful**

They departed for the outskirts of the town in silence, being noticed by no one.

The strings that Maglor had chosen for this little mission, seven trusted and true men and women, deposited the unconscious volantene onto the ground in a heap.

The assassin's hired mercenaries had already been dealt with. They would not be found. Not now, and not ever.

Maglor nodded to the would-be assassin. "Wake him up, Torena."

"Yes, my lord,"

Torena, the one who answered, then hefted a bucket of water, drawn fresh from one of Oldtown's many wells.

A moment later, that Oldtown water splashed upon its target, and the volantene sputtered awake, soaked through.

As he spat out a mouthful of water and was about to dash to his feet, Orrin aimed an arrow straight between his purple eyes.

That set the volantene back on his heels.

As those purple eyes widened in shock and took in their surroundings, Maglor spoke. "I would advise you to shut up and listen to what I have to say, child of Lys and Volantis," Maglor said in diplomatic tones. "Just as I would also advise you to not attempt anything stupid."

Maglor walked until his shadow all but enveloped the would-be assassin.

"I know who you are," Maglor then said. "Your name is Oredo Maegyr Rogare, and you were born of Lys and Volantis. You are a member of the conjoined families of Rogare and Maegyr, and you are one of the grandchildren of the late Lorgan Maegyr, former Triach of the Tiger Party."

It was amazing how loosely a human's lips started to flap when those lips were plied with copious amounts of alcohol.

Especially when he thought that no one of import or ability was listening in.

"I also know your purpose here; to make Beren Hightower suffer by murdering his bride," Maglor. "You bribed a few sentries and others about the route the procession would take. And so, you and your little band of killers lay in wait among various points. If you, the first, failed, then the others would pick up the attempt as well. Now, has anything I said been incorrect?"

The now-named Oredo swallowed and then spoke. "Then I suppose you know why I have to do this, to kill that escaped slave, sunsetlander," he said, in the smooth accent of Volantis, tinged as it was by the lyrical tones of Lys.

Maglor's eyes narrowed. "I have a good idea as to why you _think_ you have to. In all honesty, I am not sympathetic in the slightest."

Oredo's eyes bulged grotesquely. "Not sympathetic!? He murdered my grandfather and two of my uncles! Freed countless other slaves while bearing my grandfather's mark! Burnt down one of our manses! Stole our conjoined family's sword, _Truth! _Lot 791's actions nearly brought all of us to complete ruin!"

"You enslaved him. He just wanted his freedom. Thus, he did what any would do when given the opportunity; he escaped. But I am not here to debate morality with you, Oredo. I am here to ask you to leave and go home. Put this foolishness behind you."

Oredo's face grew indignant. "Are you fucking insane!? Why would I do that?"

"Because then you would live," Maglor replied.

His answer was punctuated by Orrin drawing back on his bowstring.

Oredo's face grew pale, but he seemed to swallow down his fear. "Fuck you, sunsetlander! I swore an oath and I will see it through!"

Upon uttering those words, Maglor felt his being grew cold.

"An oath?" he whispered.

The wind began to pick up, and Maglor's men all backed up warily.

"Y-yes," Oredo stuttered. "I swore upon my grandfather's grave to not rest until that errant slave was brought to justice, and that I would stop for nothing! I swore to my sister and her children, and to my mother, and to the gods themselves, Bakkalon and Saagael that I would let nothing stand in my way, and that I would drench myself in the blood of hundreds if that was what it took, and that I would take _everything_ from Lot 971! And I intend to keep it!"

Maglor was barely listening, his mind far away, receding back through the mists of time, to another place.

His hand throbbed with phantom ache, as a phantom edge slashed into it, and phantom blood dripped onto the ground.

In his mind's eye, he and seven others raised their bloody hands high by firelight.

_Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,  
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,  
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,  
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,  
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,  
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,  
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,  
finding keepeth or afar casteth  
a Silmaril. This swear we all:  
death we will deal him ere Day's ending,  
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.  
**On the holy mountain hear in witness  
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!**_

He remembered how noble that vow had seemed, and he remembered the screams, and the burning ships…

He remembered the pleading of those who had not come to Aman, and of the secondborn, whilst his face and hands were drenched in the blood of children…

Maglor was quiet for a moment as the screams continued to echo in his ears.

Then, a moment later, Oredo was dangling high off the ground, Maglor's hand tight around his throat. If asked, any of Maglor's attending strings would have testified that he had moved more swiftly than the wind itself. "You swore such an oath, did you? Did you swear it before your gods and kin? Do you feel proud, to have bound yourself in such a manner?"

Oredo's legs kicked and he futilely dug at Maglor's grip. "Do you think your oath will protect you, if I were to snap your neck, here and now?" Maglor hissed, as he brought their faces closer. "It would take but a bit more pressure from my hand, and this will all be over. Were that to happen, then would your oath bring you back to life, armor you against my men as they riddled you with arrows, and left your corpse for the crows and vultures? Well?"

As the volantene gasped for air, his face turning as purple as his eyes, Maglor glared at him and noted that despite the approaching asphyxiation, Oredo's eyes remained… defiant.

But another part was scared.

Maglor then dropped Oredo to the ground, and the volantene coughed and gasped for breath. "There is part of me still hopes that you could be dissuaded from this bloody course," said Maglor. "I've inflicted enough death and destruction to last several human lifetimes, under the burden of such an oath that the one you swore is but as pale and ephemeral dust before it. But, as I learned, vengeance and dread oaths are hollow, pitiable things. They will leave you empty, hollow, and pitiable. It will create within you such an abyss that it will never be filled, and you will be an empty, hollow, and pitiable thing for the rest of your days. And that is a fate that I would wish upon no one. I know, because I have endured such a fate, and I will continue to endure it until my final day.

For a long moment, it seemed as if the volantene would do something stupid, rage, and defiance dancing in his Valyrian eyes.

Maglor sighed. "Before you make your next move, then consider this; say you do escape me, or even kill me, and escape my fellows here. Perhaps you actually can, fate and luck are strange things. Then, somehow, without support from any of your hired mercenaries, you manage to carry out your task of making Beren Hightower suffer, somehow killing Lady Luthien, and then you manage to somehow escape Oldtown. Then, you would plunge Westeros into a war. Think only of the people. Thousands upon thousands would die. Men, women, and children, and they would not die quietly. Some would die by the blade, and the other by starvation and disease and famine.

"But more than that, Beren Hightower would become a man with nothing left to lose. He would find out who it was that tore his happiness from him, and so he would devote the rest of his life towards _eradicating _every last trace of your family, the family that kept him as a slave. In one night, he burned down a portion of the Black Walls and freed over a hundred slaves, and that was with little-to-no help. Imagine what he could do with the wrath of a _nation _behind him. The deaths of your family would then be on _your _head, Oredo Maegyr Rogare.

"So, here is my question, at the end of all of that; say that you succeed in your self-appointed mission. Would you be able to shoulder that burden, all that death, Oredo Maegyr Lorgare? Could you?"

The only sound was that of the wind, and then came a second sound; weeping.

Oredo Maegyr Rogare had tears falling from his purple eyes.

"So now, I will ask you, one more time, Oredo Maegyr Rogare, son of Volantis and Lys… Forswear your vengeance, your foolish oath. Forswear it, leave it here, in the mud and grass, and go home. Go home, back across the narrow sea, back to your manses and your broken slaves. Go back, and _live._ Live your life for today, and embrace tomorrow. Do not let hatred and the weight of the past burden you to the point of yesterday's immobility. Please. I would prefer not to taint this happy day with blood.

"I will not ask you again. So please… make the right choice."

For a while, the only sound was of Oredo's weeping. Maglor simply waited. Orrin, Oera, Corag, Aerra, Torrhen, Gwynesse, and Orako all tensed, waiting.

Then, the blade of a drawn knife glinted in the afternoon sun.

Orrin raised his arrow, but there was no need.

All watched in shock as the volantene drew the knife across his own throat.

Maglor and his seven watched as the would-be assassin choked and gurgled and died, blood billowing from the new red mouth.

Maglor then rose and sighed tiredly. He was so very tired. "Strip him anything of value he has," he commanded of his strings. "Bury him somewhere hidden, and give his coin and goods to the poor and needy."

"Aye, my lord," said Oera of Honeyholt, her teak skin lightly sweating from the sun.

"What of his crossbow and weapons?" Orrin asked, as he put away his arrow and bow, and held up the finely crafted weapon to examine it.

"Have the crossbow given as a gift to the happy couple," The Master of Whispers said, as he rubbed at his face. "A little bit of irony makes things taste less bitter, perhaps."

No one save for those present would ever know what had been done here, this day.

No one would ever know the tale of the end of Oredo Maegyr Rogare, grandson of Lorgan Maegyr, who was also known as Lorgan the Easterling…

* * *

**The Uncrowned queen.**

Rhaena did not like these elves. She distrusted them, even if they had kept her siblings and mother safe. They were too… inhuman, too… perfect.

It was infuriating.

She also was not overly fond of Oldtown, truth be told. She still suffered a few terrors here and there of the Faith Uprising.

As such, it was also why she distrusted the Order of the Dragon. You could put scales and wings and fangs and claws and a tail on seven stars and call them dragons, but seven stars are still seven fucking stars.

Suffice to say, Rhaena found little to none enjoyment so far in the Reach.

"Are you all right?" Androw asked, as their carriage wheeled in the procession.

"It's nothing," she said, with a dismissive. "I will just be glad once all this is over, and we are away from this place."

"Back to Fair Isle and Faircastle?" her love asked, cheek cradled against her palm as she sat opposite Rhaena.

"Perhaps," mused Rhaena, though privately, she wondered for how long that would be.

Despite Lord Marq's amiability, Rhaena would have been a fool to ignore Franklyn's vitriol towards her, Elissa, Alayne, and Samantha.

But that was not too great a concern. She was a dragon, after all, and dragons feard nothing.

As their carriage rolled on, they passed an opening in the city that revealed the ocean, with the afternoon sun dancing ever closer to the endless edge.

Rhanea watched as Elissa looked out over that sea, and sighed.

Rhaena smiled. No doubt her love was thinking of the view from the room that she and Rhaena shared.

What else was there for her to think about?

* * *

**The Elf-Friend**

The grand party made their way to the feasting and dancing area. Located in the open courtyard of the Hightower. It was a grand and wide-open space, filled with tables and pavilions and such. The newly-weds were sat at the raised head, alongside the royal family. There was even room for the bride's parents to sit comfortably on the ground, though great layers of cushions were provided for them.

Once all were seated, with the bride and groom at the head of the high table, countless servants in dazzling livery filtered out from inside the Hightower carrying trays of food.

The first course was a rich chestnut-and-mushroom soup, composed of cream and chestnuts and a thick chicken broth served in gilded bowls. They looked almost comically small in the hands of Thingol.

The second course was a salad of edible flowers, lettuce, carrots, roasted onions, tomatoes, and topped with a sauce of vinegar, salt, and bacon drippings. Wine and lemon-water kept flowing, and the first of the singers began their performance.

As the sky turned orange and red from the setting sun, the guests were then given sweetcorn fritters, smoked crab, and queer little pastries filled with almonds, pork, eggs, and dornish snakes cooked with eastern spices. The latter was surprisingly tasty, truth be told. Jae enjoyed it, and he noted Alys and Del enjoying it as well. Lord Maglor reappeared from wherever he had been and played upon his harp a wondrous and sonorous melody that seemed to leave all present breathless.

The fourth course consisted of roasted peacock stuffed with onions and dates and oranges, alongside trenchers of roasted venison cooked in a savory sauce comprised of carrots, raisins, onions, and garlic. This was served alongside oatcakes crafted with apples and oranges. A troupe of tumblers and mummers began performing and entertaining. Jae could not remember laughing so hard, especially at the songs.

Many elves smiled politely, but none actually laughed.

As the fifth course was placed before all, whole trouts cooked and seasoned with dornish peppers, salt, and other things, whole slabs of beef and boar seared with rosemary and thyme and garlic, Lord Manfred Hightower, strong and firm despite his seventy-plus years of age, stood from his seat and raised his hands for silence.

Countless pairs of eyes turned towards the aged Voice of Oldtown as he cleared his throat."

"My fellow lords and ladies of the Kingdoms,' he then looked to Thingol and Jae and Fingolfin, "and to our visiting sovereigns, I bid you all welcome. I am touched and honored by your presence here, on one of the most joyous occasions that a father can experience; the marriage of one of his children."

He took a shaky breath, the corners of his eyes growing a bit wet. "In the past years, I have not known much cause for joy. Indeed, it seems that I was inundated on all sides by great and crushing waves of sorrow. I was blessed with four children, but, one by one, I could do naught but watch as two of those children died, whilst a third remained all but dead to me for over twenty years. Though the deaths of Ceryse and Morgan will haunt me and my family for years to come, I am still gladdened beyond all things that my youngest, Beren, could return to us, to me."

He turned to the bride and groom. "My boy… my son. When I bid you leave… no, when I _banished _you, all those years ago, my heart broke the moment it was done. Every day, I wished that the words spoken that night had never been said, and I could take it back, that you would return home safe and sound. After ten years, I laid that hope to rest alongside my sorrows.

"But now, that hope has been restored, for you are returned, older and wiser, just as I am as well. But, beyond that, it gladdens me that you will not be alone in life, and that you have found for yourself a love that shines brighter than the sun. Such a love, that even a blind man could see it."

He then raised his chalice of Arbor gold high into the air towards the bride and groom. "To my son Beren, and to my new good-daughter, Luthien… may the poets sing of your love for at least a thousand years!"

All raised their cups in cheer. "TO BEREN AND LUTHIEN!"

* * *

**The Lord of Cats**

As the dishes were cleared away, the floor was then cleared away for a dance, and the minstrels began to play in earnest.

Tu wanted to stand up and ask _her_ and join the dance but remained rooted to the spot, and his eyes remained sighted on _her_.

Next to him, Roy looked up. "Are you alright, Tu? I know you said that you were entranced, but you have been surreptitiously staring at that elvish maid nearly the entire ceremony," he said.

"I cannot help it, Roy," Tu said wistfully. "She is the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life."

"Is she?"

"She is. I want to speak to her, but, alas… I am struck dumb, and my legs become immobile when I try to move forward. And that never happens to me, as well you know, Roy."

Instead of replying, Roy leaned back in his chair, and a strange expression came onto his bearded face.

"What is wrong with your face, cousin?" Tu asked.

"I am smiling."

"That's a smile? It looks like something found on a dead animal."

"And yet, I am smiling."

"Why?"

"Because I am enjoying this moment."

"What moment?"

Roy interlaced his fingers across his flat stomach. "The moment when you, Tybalt-Tuor Lannister, Tuor Silver-Tongue, Tybalt the Red Cat, the man who gave himself a second name… he has been struck dumb and witless by good and true infatuation. This is a sight that I want to savor, before…"

Tu crossed his arms, stood from his seat, and then took another look at the radiant elf maiden. "Before what, oh jackanapes?"

"Before I do this."

A moment later, Tu felt himself being kicked forward…

* * *

**Silver Foot**

It had been a lovely ceremony and a lovely feast.

Yet, throughout all of this, Idril could not help but keep looking at the human she had caught sight of yesterday, and who she saw now.

Idril had never before seen such a flamboyant-looking figure, or one with such red hair, and such red and gold clothes. The atani typically had hair in hues of black or gold or brown.

The skin she was not surprised at, as some of the plains-dwelling atani had skin weathered and browned by the sun.

But this man's hair… it was like the color of living flame.

It was arresting to see, truth be told, as was his beard, which she had only seen upon atani as well.

After he recovered from the push from his companion, as well as giving the aforementioned companion something that was probably a rude gesture, he straightened up, and strode forward towards where she stood with a stride that spoke not of arrogance… but of simple confidence.

He stood silently before her for a moment as the dance continued behind him, and then he bowed comically low before her, deep at the waist. "I bid you greetings, oh fairest lady. Please, pardon my forwardness, but may I have the honor of being allowed to speak with you, or perchance at least have this dance?" he said, his voice deep and smooth.

An odd thing to ask, but she saw no harm in it, and extended her hand. "You may, good man."

He smiled at her answer, and bowed again, and then took her hand, and led her into the dance, as a new one began. "That gladdens me, to hear your acquiescence, my lady. Truth be told, were it not for the actions of my cousin and companion Roy, as you no doubt saw, I would have remained too bashful to even approach you, let alone speaking to you as I do now."

"Well, may I ask you your name, bashful man?"

The music began, and they took a step back.

"My name is Tybalt-Tuor Lannister, Lord of Cats and all things feline. I have other titles, but I don't think you would be interested in hearing about them, for they are endless and boring to recite. If you wish, you can call me Tybalt, Tuor, Ty… or Tu."

Three steps to the left, and she smiled and laughed.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Idril, granddaughter of Fingolfin."

Two steps forward and turn to the right.

He raised an eyebrow. "Then I am doubly honored to be speaking to you, my lady. Truly, a humble cat such as I am unworthy of basking in your most radiant and royal presence."

Idril tilted her head. "Are you always so glib with your tongue, Lord Tybalt-Tuor?"

"Yes. It is one of my many shortcomings, I am afraid."

She could not tell whether it was a humble admittance or a boast.

Yet, she found that she did not want to dismiss him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Two steps to the left.

"You call yourself 'Lord of Cats?"

He nodded. "I do, for I am a most feline sovereign. I play with yarn, lounge lazily in sunlight, and chase mice when the fancy takes me. In addition, I am very fond of drinking from a nice saucer of fresh milk. But, unlike my feline subjects, I am very fond of a bath. As a plus, I do wear clothes."

She could not resist the small chuckle that left her lips at that, and then she glanced down at the symbol on his doublet. "But why style yourself after just cat? Are your family not styled after regal lions, Lord Tybalt-Tuor?"

He shrugged as he gently spun her. "Ah, but lions are so… overused, in one's face, so contrite and cliché. For goodness sake, the Reynes, Osgreys, Grandisons, Jasts, and Parrens all use lions. Lions, they are always so focused on strength and war and all such nonsense, something of which there has been a bit too much in the past few years. But cats… they are the true nobility of the animal kingdom. They let themselves be pampered, and are always a cut above the rest. Yet, like a lion, they are always willing to defend their young to death. As well as those that they adore."

"Interesting."

Three steps backward.

"I should certainly hope so, my lady. But, enough about myself. What about you? It is rather rude to not let great ladies speak. They always have much better things to say than men, would you not agree?"

Two steps forward and to the left.

"I would not disagree, though, you seem rather enlightened for a man of Westeros. Not many of your fellows appear to hold such views though. Most of the men I've met tonight seem to enjoy only espousing about themselves. All they seemed to expect me to do was simply nod and smile."

"But that is the thing about cats and lions… they are quite matriarchal. My mother was the same. Alas, my fellows seem to think themselves peacocks… they hope that by strutting about, some peahen will notice them, and be distracted by their bright and meaningless plumage."

"So, I am a peahen then, Lord Tybalt-Tuor?"

He laughed at that. "Nay, Lady Idril. I would not be so crass as to compare you to a mere animal."

Not once did they change partners during the dance, though there were many offers from lords and ladies alike.

Indeed, it seemed as if not even hammers could separate the two…

* * *

**The White Lady**

Aredhel could not resist the smile on her face as she watched her niece dance with the Lannister lord.

"Any particular reason as to why you are smiling, my love?" Ulrick asked as he gently spun her about.

"Marveling at love, my dear," she replied as she pirouetted. "Marveling at love."

* * *

**Silver Foot**

As the night meandered on, most of the guests departed from the feast hall, as did the musicians. Idril and her new companion soon found themselves walking on the outskirts of the city, in one of the surrounding grassy fields.

As they laughed and talked about everything and nothing, Idril could put it off no longer.

As Tybalt-Tuor watched in bemusement, Idril removed her shoes and continued to walk upon the ground barefoot.

Such a wonderful feeling, though she wondered if he would mock her for it. "Do not mind me," said she. "I find that keeping one's feet bare is much more agreeable. Shoes are just too stifling. My father and friends call me _Celebrindal_, Silverfoot, in your tongue, due to my habit of this."

He nodded at that as if she had just given him very sage advice. "A most wonderful title, my lady."

Idril then watched in amusement as, a moment later, Tybalt-Tuor too removed his shoes and socks, and casually threw the footwear over his shoulder. As such, both stood barefoot upon the grassy ground. He idly wiggled his toes into the dirt and grass and then nodded. "You're right. This is much better. Freer. I am shocked that I did not think of this before. Shame upon me!"

For a countless time, she laughed at what he said, and it made him grin wide in return.

They continued to walk, barefoot on the ground, and she felt the urge to slip her arm around his. So, she indulged that urge.

It was a pleasant sensation, their arms entwined as such.

Eventually, they came upon a cliff overlooking the ocean. Above them was a great blanket of stars adorning the night sky.

"Such a lovely sight," she said, as she gazed upon those endless stars in the sky.

"Most assuredly," Tybalt-Tuor said, as she noted him gazing upon her out of the corner of her eye.

She chuckled. "I meant the stars, Lord Lannister."

He chuckled at the usage of both his names. "Aye, I know. But I stand by what I say, good lady. You are a most lovely and wonderous sight, such as I have never seen before in my feline life."

He then looked up at the stars as well. "But you are correct. This is a wonderful sight as well."

In the distance, the ocean waves crashed rhythmically against the shore.

Idril watched as Tybalt-Tuor tilted his head, closed his eyes, and began to bob his head, up and down, as if to a silent rhythm that only he could hear.

"What are you doing?" she asked of him.

His head continued to bob up and down for a moment, and then he paused and looked at her. "You may find this to be odd, but, when I was a young kitten, I was sailing with my Lannisport cousins. We were caught in a freak squall and… I fell off a boat. As I sank, beneath those roiling waves, I felt… no fear, oddly enough. Instead, I felt at peace. Then, I heard… a sound. It filled me, that sound, that melody, with the strength to kick and swim to the surface, and I was soon fished out."

He shook his head. "After that fateful day, whenever I am near the sea, I find myself hearing that lovely melody which saved me so long ago. Not… music, as such, but something… purer. Deeper."

He lifted up his hands, closed his eyes, and waved about his hands as if he were pulling about the sounds of music itself. "When I close my eyes, I can hear it. I can hear that melody in the crashing of the waves, the far off cries and calls of the sea birds, and the flow of the ocean in the distance. And when I am standing on the deck of a ship… ah, good lady but I am but lost to it, heart and soul. A most wonderful thing, that melody.

"It is why I have two names. Tybalt was my birth-name, and as for Tuor? In the language of the First men, it means 'Sea-Lover'. Thus, Tybalt-Tuor Lannister. The Red Cat who loves the sea."

He chuckled. "I sometimes think that it's what has fueled my restless nature, that song, and that love of the sea, especially when I was younger. It has ever propelled me forward, ever onwards. Gods know that if Roy thought it the source, he would have done his best to deafen me until I could hear it no more."

He did not sound mad, and Idril was not one to judge. The way he talked about it… it sounded like the histories she had been told as a child.

Perhaps Their reach extended further than believed?

"Could I hear it, as well, do you think, this melody of yours?" she asked softly, after a moment.

He nodded. "I do believe so. Close your eyes, and listen only to the sea. Reach out with your senses. Smell the salt, feel the breeze, listen to the waves, taste the wind. Let everything else… fade away."

He stepped back a respectful distance, and she closed her eyes.

Everything was silent for a moment, and then…

It started small, like a single, twinkling star in the far-off distance, beckoning you ever further onwards.

It rose in crescendo greater and greater, and it felt like she was floating in the center of a great and endless ocean.

But she was not being crushed by its depths. Instead, it settled about her, like a kindly embrace, or a warm blanket on a cold night.

It was an all-encompassing feeling, soothing, and kindly.

After what felt like an eternity, she opened her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and smiled towards Tuor. "You are right, Lord Tuor. It is the most wonderful melody."

"Indeed, it is,' he said, as his eyes studied her face.

They stood there, for a long moment, unmoving, as the sea sang about them.

Then, he took a step forward, bowed, and held out his hand in invitation. "Well then, lady Silverfoot, would you do me the honor of dancing with me, to that strange and soundless melody?"

She smiled, and, for the second time that night, Idril held out her hand. "I would be delighted, Lord of Cats."

All through the night did the Cat and the Princess of the silver feet dance, barefoot upon the ground, and all through the night did they laugh most merrily.

When the sun began to creep up through the horizon, they were still dancing and felt not a bit tired, and only retired when the sun crested the edge of the ocean.

For the rest of the celebrations, they remained neigh-on inseparable….

* * *

_For seven days, the city of Oldtown celebrated festivities and joy. _

_There were jousts, melees, archery contests, and tilts, where men won and lost gold and glory and prestige. There were also mummers, plays, puppet shows, minstrels, and feasting. So very much feasting! Even the poor-folk ate well for those seven days and nights, and even beyond, from all the leftovers._

_One of the many entertainments came from a strange grey figure named Gandalf, who the King counted as a dearest friend. For the final three nights of celebration, the sky above was filled dazzling lights that twisted themselves into a myriad of shapes, and all felt entranced at watching them. Some thought it magic, but Gandalf would merely chuckle at the notion when approached about it._

_For at least three days, King Jaehaerys and High king Fingolfin bartered and talked and ironed out last details, with the negotiations helped by Lord Tybalt-Tuor Lannister. _

_For seven days, the Silver Foot and the Lord of Cats were ever in the other's company when they could be, when the Lord Lannister was not assisting his king in trade negotiations. This was noticed by Lady Aredhel, and High King Fingolfin, Idril's grandfather. _

_At the height of these celebrations, the treaty of friendship and trade between the nations of Beleriand and Westeros was finalized. _

_All watched as Fingolfin and Jaehaerys affixed their names to the grand document and then shook hands, cementing bonds of friendship that would hopefully last for a long age to come…_

* * *

**The White Lady**

_The evening of the Sixth day of celebrations_

Now was her chance.

Despite the closeness, Aredhel had not yet truly had an opportunity to introduce Ulrick to her father.

As the dinner wound down and the dance began, with great attention layered upon watching Lord Tybalt-Tuor and Idril dance, she found her window, while little Aerea and Rhaella had been sent to bed.

As the rest of the attendees rose to dance, or left for their lodgings in Oldtown, Aredhel set a hand on Ulrick's shoulder, and they walked over to her father.

"Father," she said.

Fingolfin looked up from the remnants of his wine and smiled. "Aredhel."

She gestured to her love, who stood beside her quietly. "This is Ulrick Dayne… the man I love."

Aredhel then said nothing else and watched as her father scrutinized Ulrick.

His eyes looked over her knight of stars until he then spoke. "So, you are the one who holds my daughter's heart, are you?" the High King of Fingolfin inquired. "Ser Ulrick Dayne."

Ulrick shook his head. "I am. But, with all due respect, your majesty, it is quite the opposite; it is your daughter who holds _my_ heart."

"Is that so?"

"It is, Your Majesty. She holds my heart, and I can think of nowhere better for it to be."

The High King of Beleriand looked upon Ulrick for a long moment and then stood from his seat, towering. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, good Ser. However, I wish to speak with my daughter for a moment."

"Of course, your grace," Ulrick said.

As Ulrick walked away, her father then turned to her and sighed.

"It is not my place to dictate to you your life, dear heart," her father said, as he set his hands upon her shoulders. "I will not lecture or dissuade you. If you are satisfied…"

"I am not simply satisfied, father," Aredhel said. "I am _happy_. He is a good and kind man, and he makes me happy, just as Lord Tuor makes Idril happy," she said, as she gestured to where her niece and the Lannister lord danced and twirled to an upbeat tune being played by some of the minstrels.

Fingolfin was silent for a moment, and then he bent down and kissed Aredhel's forehead. "Then far be it from me to stand in the way of that happiness. It is something of which there is precious little in this world."

He then pulled back. "As for Idril and the 'Lord of Cats', I will speak to her father, but, the same should apply to her as well."

Aredhel nodded and embraced her sire. "Thank you, father."

Her father returned her embrace. "Be well my daughter, and treasure this love. Always."

"I shall."

She nodded, and then walked away, towards her knight of stars.

* * *

_For Seven days, Oldtown feasted and celebrated, and then, as do all things, the seven days ended, and all the guests departed back to their homes, Lords, and ladies to their castles, and Kings and Queens to their thrones._

_The last to leave were the elves, and Lord Tybalt-Tuor of House Lannister…_

* * *

**The Silver Foot**

As the elves and their atani set out to their boats on the docks, many Lords and Ladies of Westeros followed to bid their new friends and acquaintances farewell.

All watched as King Jaehaerys and her grandfather bid each other fond farewells. Idril did the same for Alysanne, who had only grown more beautiful over the years.

Then, she turned to her Lord of Cats.

For seven days, Idril had felt pure and happy bliss. Rarely had she ever laughed so hard before. She had met many men during her time here, but her Lord of Cats?

Many of the men she had met had tried to impress her with endless recitations of their wealth and feats of arms… but he had simply made her laugh, as they had danced in the night.

She hoped that they would be able to meet once again so that they could dance barefoot and dance together once again.

As if sensing her thoughts, Tu gave her a soft smile, and then bowed and kissed Idril's hand. "It was an absolute pleasure to have met you, great lady Silver Foot. A pleasure beyond all else."

"I could say the same, Lord of Cats," Idril replied.

They gave each other another smile. "If we don't meet again, oh lady of the Silver feet, then may we meet again as cats in another life," Tybalt-Tuor said, as his smile grew wistful and sad.

"Indeed," she replied. "For they are the true nobility of the animal kingdom. They let themselves be pampered, and are always a cut above the rest. Yet, like a lion, they are always willing to defend their young to death. As well as those that they adore… and love."

He was still holding on to her hand. She did not want him to let go.

When she finally had to pull away, his hand was still outstretched.

She kept watching the docks as the boat sailed away until he was naught but a speck….

* * *

**The Lord of Cats**

Tuor did not know for how long he stood upon the docks of Oldtown, watching her ship sail away until it was naught but a speck upon the horizon. All he knew was that he was one of two left standing upon the empty dock and that the sun had set.

That was indeed true, for the sun had left, sailed back to its faraway home.

Behind him, Roy set a hand upon his shoulder. "It is past time that we left, Cous," he said, kindly but firmly.

"Indeed," said the Lord of Cats. "We must be off. The realm's finances are crying out for their counter-king, after all, are they not?"

He felt a trickle water slide down his cheek.

Hm. How odd. It was a clear day, was it not.

Roy looked at him, and then, he did something that Ty never knew Roy to do before.

Red Royland Reyne drew his cousin into a swift hug, and by all the gods, Ty hugged him back and wept.

"You will see her again cous," whispered Roy.

"I know. In another life, where we will meet as cats," Ty said softly.

They remained embraced for a moment and then drew apart. "We shall depart when you are ready, cousin. Just do not tarry."

"Thank you. I shall be along shortly."

"Of course."

As his cousin walked away, Tybalt-Tuor remained on the docks, looking at the horizon, the melody crooning in his ears. It gave him soft comfort at that moment.

"Tommen?"

The voice was ragged and hoarse.

Tuor spun around.

The figure was slightly hunched and cloaked, and walked towards him with a limp, leaning on a staff. Clutched in his free, scarred hand was a long, cloth-wrapped object.

Of course, Roy was not here. "Hello… ser. May I help you?"

The figure was trembling, as he gripped the object in his free hand tightly. "You look like him… like Tommen."

Tommen? It was a rather generic name in the Westerlands. "Uh… Thank you, I suppose."

The figure then nestled his staff in the crook of his arm, and he drew back his hood. Tu recoiled in fright at the visage before him.

To his surprise, there were tears, trailing down the burns and scars and even onto the exposed bone of his jaw and teeth, and dripping from even his ruined eye.

Then, the scarred man shoved the cloth wrapped object into Tu's hands. "I can tell that you prefer axes, descendant of Tommen, but none-the-less, I fulfill my promise to him, to my friend. Take this, please. But do not worry, I will have something more suitable for you for when we next meet."

Before Tybalt could say anything else, the figure shuffled away.

After a moment, Tu gathered his wits, and looked down at the long objects in his hands, and slowly unwrapped it.

A lion-headed pommel stared back at him…

Hmmm.

* * *

**The Grey**

Gandalf ambled along the bank of the Honeywine, the _tap-tapping _of his staff accompanying each of his footsteps.

It had been a marvelous celebration. Such grand fun.

Eventually, he reached the agreed-upon meeting place and saw that the others who could arrive, had arrived.

"I saw little of you at the celebration, 'Ghost,'" he said to the first of his old friends.

The White craned her neck up at him and chuckled. "Well, great parties are not really things that I enjoy, you grey fool," she said with a slight cackle, humor dancing in her red eyes.

"That, and the fuckers would have probably burnt you at the stake for looking the way that you do, you little harridan," came the deep, grunting voice of their other friend who had deigned to show up.

Gandalf looked upon his other friend as the man crossed his thick arms over his equally thick-chest and hard belly. "Have you heard from any of the others?" Gandalf asked him.

The Brown shook his head, the veins in his thick neck bulging with each motion. "Not much. The bird-lovers rarely come down from the Red Mountains, Lady Green remains in her tree village, and the others were too busy to attend. _Ser _Bronze has had to deal with those fools in the mountains."

Gandalf nodded at this and sighed. "So," he then said. "What news have you all heard?"

* * *

_Two months later_

_King's Landing_

**The Elf-Friend**

Jae was beginning to suspect that, when one was king, days tended to mesh together in an endless blur of legislation, bartering, commanding, council meetings, and road building.

The few bright spots were the private moments that he spent with his queens and his daughters.

Little Dany and Nym, though only four months of age, were already such lively little things. He was not ashamed to say that they were the apples of his eye, as were his queens. Many happy evenings were spent enjoying their company.

As he and his Small Council poured over the latest figures for his roads and dragon pit, and the pipes and sewers and libraries that Alysanne and Delora had proposed, as well as a request for refurbishings for several chapterhouses of Order of the Dragon, there came a commotion from outside, as well as mighty wingbeats.

As Russandol and the attending Royal Guardians stood protectively in front of the council when the wingbeats ceased, the doors to the throne room were opened many moments later.

"Presenting her Royal Highness, Queen Rhaena," announced the herald, as Rhanea strode into the throne room.

"Sister," he said, as he rose and gave her a brotherly embrace. "This is unexpected, but not unwelcome. I had heard of Lord Marq's passing some months ago, but I thought you and your friends and husband were staying at Casterly Rock. As I recall, Lord Tybalt-Tuor kept an invitation open for you at all times."

"Yes, we were," came her curt reply. "But Lyman, Lord Tuor's castellan, is a fool, and a greedy one at that."

"It is true," Lord Tybalt-Tuor chimed in from where he sat at the council table. "He would sell his own mother for a boat of gold dragons… or even just silver stags."

Rhaena sent the Lord of Cats a withering glare and then turned back to Jae. "Indeed. The man kept making suggestions that I meet his bastard son, Tyler. The resident septa even asked if my marriage with Androw had even been consummated, for Seven's sake! So, we left, and now, my companions, husband, and I have been traveling about around the West and Riverlands. But there is nowhere that we can stay for too long."

"What is wrong?" Jae asked. "Do they offer no warmth, no kindness?"

"They are all warm at first. But that warmth is a temporary thing. Either I am unwelcome, or I am too welcome. They mumble and murmur of the cost of keeping me and mine, but it is all a farce. I know perfectly well that it is _Dreamfyre_ that excites them. Some of them fear her, more want her, and it is the latter that trouble me the most. They all lust for dragons of their own. That is something which I will not allow, and neither will you, I suspect. But where am I to go? Where can I live unmolested by these leeches?"

"You could live here," Jae suggested, as the rest of the Small Council watched the two siblings speak. "You could return to court. There would be a place of high standing and honor waiting here for you and your husband and friends."

Rhaena simply scoffed at that. "So that I can live forever in your shadow, baby brother? No, that will not do at all. I need a seat of my own. I need a place where no lord or lady may threaten me, banish me, or trouble that which I have taken under my protection. I _need_ lands, men, a castle."

"Well, if that is the case, then it should be no trouble for us to find you lands, nor would it be too much trouble finding the funds to build you a strong castle."

"Fie on that, baby brother. All the good lands are taken, and all the castles and keeps are occupied or in ruins. However, there is one that should suit me."

"Name it," said Jae.

"It is a castle that our family knows well, and one that _I _have a claim to… a better, _stronger _claim than your own, baby brother. I am the blood of the dragon. As such, I want my father's seat, the place where I was born, and the place where our grandfather looked upon me for the first time and wept for joy. I want _Dragonstone_."

The council room suddenly went silent.

Jae swallowed, and collected his thoughts. "That… is a heady request. My council and I must deliberate about this. In the meantime, would you and your companions be willing to stay here for the time being? Perhaps you would like to see your daughters?"

Rhaena stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Fine. I await your decision, Your Majesty."

She then walked away.

The moment she left; Jae turned back to his council. "Well, my lords? Your thoughts?"

Daemon Velaryon was the first to speak. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, but you cannot give her the isle of Dragonstone! The very thought is utterly ludicrous!"

"And why not? It is the only available castle. It is strong, defendable, everything that she requires."

"Because bequeathing that island to her would undermine your own authority as king and sovereign. Every Heir to the Lord and King of House Targaryen has always been awarded Dragonstone as their holding prior to their ascension. By allowing her that island and its incomes and peoples and territories, then she would be all but declaring herself your heir, ahead of your children and their descendants. She would be all but declaring that she is the true ruler, the true head of the proverbial dragon, and not yourself," Celeborn explained calmly.

Jae nodded since that had long been common knowledge to him and his family. "A fair point, but then, have you any other suggestions, my lords? Harrenhal, perhaps?"

"That place has been left abandoned since your grandfather torched it to ash and slag," said Albin Massey. "No one has ever been willing to hold it or rule it. Even Maegor, with all his threats and fear, could not make anyone be willing to take it. Giving it to your sister? She would regard that as an insult, I'm afraid."

They talked and discussed it, and other needed items of discussion, all through the rest of the day, but nothing was brought up as an alternative. Eventually, Jae had to table the discussion for the following day.

Dinner that night was a warm and pleasant thing, though Rhaena hardly said a word to her daughters at all.

Indeed, she barely even acknowledged them at all, truth be told. Though, she did glance towards their direction every so often where they and Lady Aredhel sat.

Delora and Alysanne tried to engage Rhaena in polite conversation, but that continually petered out.

Still, at least the dinner was good.

The fried fish and lobster were rather delicious, especially when paired with the cream sauce.

Nymeria and Daenerys were lively, though they did manage to eat their mashed carrots and turnips without too much difficulty or mess.

After dinner, he deliberated over the Dragonstone issue with his queens in their solar.

By the grace of the seven, his queens thought up a solution that seemed, if not perfect, then at least feasible and acceptable.

He then ran through it with Celeborn, who admitted that it was perhaps the best option available, out of a host of bad options.

The next day, he summoned Rhaena to his solar.

She entered, dressed in a dress of red, black, gold, and purple, the colors of Targaryen and Farman. "Well, baby brother?" she asked. "Have you made a decision?"

Jae nodded as he looked up from where he sat at his desk. "I have. After much deliberation, I have decided that I will grant you Dragonstone as your seat."

"How gracious of you," she said.

"However," Jae continued, as he rose from his seat, "you shall hold that island and the castle by my gift, not by any right that you may or may not hold. Our vaunted grandsire made six kingdoms into one with fire and blood, and I cannot and will not split it into two by carving you off a separate kingdom of your own. You are a queen by courtesy, but I am king, and my writ runs from Lemonwood to the Twins…. And on Dragonstone as well. Are we of one mind on this, sister?"

Rhaena's purple eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward until they were but face to face.

Then, she smirked a rather dark expression. "Are you truly so uncertain of that uncomfortable iron seat of yours that you must have needs have your own blood bend the knee to you, baby brother?"

"Stability of the realm comes first, sister. Before even blood," Jae stated, without even blinking.

Rhaena crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "Very well. So be it. Give me Dragonstone and one other thing, and then I shall trouble you no further."

"One more thing?" Jae asked. "What else is there that you desire?"

"Rhaella and Aerea. They are my daughters, and I want them restored to me."

"Done," Jae said.

Rhaena nodded, gave him a tight smile, and then turned on her heel. "Thank you. Now, I shall inform my friends, husband, and daughters, and then make way to the island."

Jaehaerys watched her leave, and then let out a slow breath.

She had changed, his sister. Gone was the warmth he remembered from his childhood, the loving sister who had sung and cared for him and Alys, who had put dragon eggs in their cradles.

All that seemed now was a cold, imperious figure, full of anger and hate.

But, perhaps having a true home of her own would be good for her, and the presence of her daughters. Perhaps it would allow some of the sister of his youth to return to the surface.

Besides, he had more important things to focus on at the moment, mainly the realm's roads, and the trade expedition to Beleriand…

* * *

_One Month later_

**The Lord of Cats**

As their boat sailed closer to the mists of Beleriand, Tuor felt a pang of nervous excitement, a feeling no doubt felt ball the other Westerosi aboard the ship. Around him, atani and elves scurried about, working the ropes and masts and rigging and other such boat things.

The king and Queen Alysanne had revealed very little about what to expect, save that it would be 'wonderous.'

The past few months had been wonderous indeed.

Ty's thoughts wandered back to the sword that now hung in his study, under lock and key, and even a guard.

Brightroar, the family's ancestral sword that was lost along with king Tommen of the Rock nearly 300 years ago. It had just been handed to him by a hunched-over scarred man, reforged and brilliant.

The look on Lyman's face though, when he had brought the sword back… the little shit's pure, naked jealousy had been amusing.

But mostly… he thought of bare feet, golden hair, a lovely smile, and dancing beneath endless stars.

Tybalt's thoughts then wandered about some more as he sighted grandfather Balaq's three swan ships that he had allotted for the escort to Beleriand.

Roy cleared his throat as he stood beside Tu. "Are you alright, cousin?" he asked.

Tu returned his thoughts to the present. "I am fine, Roy. The approaching history of what is to happen… it is just a very great deal to take in, is all."

"Indeed, it is. So… don't fuck this up," Roy said in his blunt manner, with a clap on his shoulder.

Then, the lookout called out that they were about to penetrate the mists.

As they drew closer, the melody in Tuor's ears rose in a crescendo.

He blinked, and then they were through the mists. He looked up.

The captain of the vessel, a dour-looking elf named Rinlan, then spoke out. "Behold, for there lies our destination; The port city of Edhellond."

It was a beautiful sight and a beautiful city. Sweeping white-and-grey towers adorned with lights, and majestic sea walls welcomed them as the boats drew closer to the harbor.

A small party awaited them as the boats docked and dropped anchor. The group was headed by two elves, garbed in silver and blue, and both possessed of ethereal grace and mein. Both wore simple circlets upon their brows.

Tuor, Roy and the others strode down the gangplank to the docks, and towards the welcoming party.

Tybalt then bowed before the pair in a respectful manner.

The male nodded his head at the gesture. "I welcome you to the city of Edhellond, Lord Lannister. I am Amroth, ruler, and the king of this city and these lands, and this is my betrothed, the lady Nimrodel. May these next several days help to strengthen the bonds of trade and friendship between our nations for years to come."

"It is a great honor to be here, King Amroth, Lady Nimrodel," Tuor said, as he kissed the lady's hand. "I can only hope to do my best to cement those bonds of friendship. When shall the negotiations begin?"

"Very soon," the King assured. "Apartments and quarters have been set up for you and your guards and servants. The High King shall meet with you on the morrow."

"Thank you," Tybalt-Tuor replied. "I look forward to his arrival. There is much for us to discuss."

The elven king nodded; his face impassive. "Indeed, there will be. May your time in Beleriand be fruitful and wonderous, Lord Lannister. My men shall guide you and yours to your quarters when you are ready to rest."

With that, having apparently decided that Tuor and his fellows were no longer worth the honor of his presence, Amroth and Nimrodel departed, alongside a few guards. The rest waited silently.

As Tuor turned to oversee his men and the supplies, as well as take a look at a few of the papers sheathed at his side next to his ax, papers which were full of figures and sums and speculations and ideas for transactions and investments and services…

"It would seem that we are now cats, oh Lord of Cats," came a familiar voice from behind him.

He nearly dropped the papers full of figures and sums and speculations and ideas for transactions and investments and services, and, his breath caught up in his throat, Tybalt slowly looked up and turned.

There she stood, feet bare upon the docks, and her golden hair gently dancing in the gentle breeze.

"…Indeed," said Tybalt-Tuor Lannister, after finding his voice. "For it is only cats that have all the luck in the world."

"Which is why they are so adored," finished Idril Celebrindal

Almost as one, they smiled at each other.

Truly wondrous. Truly, truly wondrous.

The melody danced and crooned in his ears.

* * *

_For one month, Tybalt-Tuor Lannister stayed in Beleriand, and when he returned, not only did he return with plenty of charters, trade agreements, and samples of goods, it was also with a betrothal, and to the granddaughter of Fingolfin, no less. _

_Suffice to say, the whole of the realm was amazed at the news. _

* * *

_The marriage of Beren Hightower, and Luthien, daughter of King Thingol. It is said that all stood in awe of this couple. It was a marriage that would have far-reaching repercussions, good and ill, throughout the history of Westeros, as did the marriages of Idril to Tuor Lannister, and Aredhel to Ulrick Dayne. In all the days of celebrations for these three weddings, a thousand deals were struck, a thousand grudges were laid to rest and given new life, a thousand friendships were forged and broken, and a thousand betrothals were made and reversed. Also, obscenely, a thousand bastards were bred and born. _

_Though love is, in truth, a thing that factors very little into the lives and marriages of the highborn, it is written that the love which emanated from these couples was so palpable, so true and pure… that none could find the words to describe it. _

_The poets oft say that love is a thing that we maesters will never truly understand. Perhaps that is for the best. _

_Each of the elven brides became much beloved in their adopted homes, just as they too loved their new homes. _

_Aredhel fell in love with sands and stones and winds of Dorne, Idril enjoyed the hills and plains of the West, while Luthien became beloved in the city of Oldtown, and in much of the Reach itself…_

_A few months later, it was announced to the realm that each of the elven brides was with child, and, in the waning days of the 54th year after Aegon's conquest, the first half-elves of Westeros were born._

_In the Westerlands, Lord Tybalt-Tuor and Lady Idril brought in to the world triplets, two sons and a daughter, and their names were Eärandil, Gilmith, and Galdor._

_In Oldtown, the Lady Luthien did birth twins, a boy and a girl, to whom were given the names Dior and Aerin. _

_Finally, in the ancient halls of Starfall, Aredhel gave birth to a beautiful baby daughter whom she and her husband named Elbereth. _

* * *

_1 year later_

_Dragonstone_

**Queen of the West**

Outside, the wind howled, as a storm and waves raged and crashed off the coast of Dragonstone.

Inside, Rhaena cut a portion from her roast duck and took a bite of the crispy, pepper-seasoned flesh. It was good, as were the seared vegetables and boiled potatoes.

She chewed, swallowed, and then looked up at the rest of the people sitting at the candle-lit table of Dragonstone's main dining room.

Rhaella picked at her food sullenly, glaring at her all the while; Elissa ate in silence whilst glancing out the room's window every so often, and Androw drank deeply of his wine. It was his third cup.

Aerea hid behind a tome from the library as she ate.

Only Sam and Alayne Royce seemed genial, as they talked with each other, though even they also seemed affected by the feeling in the air.

Rhaella started chewing with her mouth wide open, and loudly.

"Stop chewing like that, girl," Rhaena said.

In lieu of a verbal reply, Rhaella instead chewed one more time and swallowed. Then, without looking away, she calmly picked up her plate, held it out to the side, and then dropped it to the ground, food and all. The clatter was rather loud and made Aerea and Adnrow flinch.

Before Rhaena could reprimand her further, Rhaella stood up and stalked away.

The room went silent, even as the page and servants went about quickly cleaning up the mess.

Rhaena gripped her knife tightly, and slowly cut another piece of duck.

She looked back up as she chewed, and shared a look with Elissa.

Elissa blinked.

* * *

_Later_

She sat waiting by her vanity, her feet bare upon her room's floor.

Her door opened, and Elissa walked in, closing the door behind her as she did.

Before anything could be said, Rhaena was up and embracing Elissa. She kissed Elissa with a passion bordering on fury, her hands roaming and all but tearing the dress from Elissa's skin as she practically dragged her to the bed. Her one hand groped at Elissa's now bare breasts, and the other drifted down towards her mound and sex.

Rhaena ran her hand across her love's pink nipples and started kneading them and twirling them between her fingers until they grew firm.

Elissa groaned into her mouth.

They remained standing, barely, the kisses growing more intense as Elissa's hands unlaced Rhaena's gown so that it could puddle to the floor, and commenced their own exploration of Rhaena's flesh, crawling down like sensual spiders to her sex, causing Rhaena's own groans to become conjoined with Elissa's.

She felt two fingers enter her, and then a third, and they became rapid in motion, until Elissa started to kiss her way down Rhaena's neck and into the space between her breasts, and then lower, to her sex. Rhaena set her hands upon Elissa's head, guiding her down, stroking and taking fistfuls of her hair, as Elissa withdrew her fingers ever so slowly, and began to taste of her. Her tongue…. Oh, but her tongue!

She kept one hand on Elissa's head and set the other against her vanity as Elissa's ministrations continued. Oh, but how it felt!

How it felt, how it felt!

Rhaena let loose a great moan before Elissa rose and kissed her again.

Rhaena could almost taste herself, in a strange way.

They then lowered themselves to the bed, and Rhaena let everything just fade away….

* * *

_He ripped at her dress. She tried to fight back, but that only either incensed him or aroused him further. _

_He gripped her by her throat and all but tore at her naked breast. Despite herself, she cried out at his tight grip. _

_He turned her around and shoved her down upon the floor, the cold stone against her back and buttocks, while his hand was still around her throat. _

_She tried to break free, but he was too freakishly strong. _

_Then, she felt his cock enter her, roughly, like a sword that was being shoved through her cunt. _

_One thrust, two, three, over and over and over, seemingly without end. _

_She clenched her teeth, even as tears fell from her eyes. _

_Even as he spilled into her, he was not yet sated. _

_He gripped her shoulders, and flipped her over, all but grinding her face into the cold floor. _

_He entered her from behind, over and over and over again, each one thrust was just as painful as the last. _

_Over and over, and over and over, he screamed the same thing. "A child! A child! A child! GIVE ME A FUCKING CHILD!"_

_The only consolation of this was that his screams always echoed out her own cries. _

_Over, and over and over, and over… _

* * *

Rhaena's eyes shot open, along with her scream, entangled as she was in sheets and Elissa's limbs.

A moment later, she found herself embraced by Elissa, who whispered calming things in her ear.

Right. Right.

He was dead, dead, and burned.

She was here. She was here and safe.

After a moment, as she calmed down and the terror faded to waking memories, Rhaena. looked at her love, and kissed her passionately, as another warmth spread through her body.

* * *

_Later_

"What are you thinking of, my sailor, my love?" Rhaena asked as she stroked Elissa's hair and breasts, whilst they basked in the afterglow of their second lovemaking.

Elissa looked at her, and then out her bedroom window. Outside the storm had ceased, and the sea had quieted.

Her love sighed. "The sea."

No, not this again. Rhaena frowned and shook her head. "No, you cannot."

"Please, Rhae. One vessel, swift and large enough to sail the Sunset Sea. Think about it. Whole new lands to explore…"

"No."

"New things to discover."

"No."

"Perhaps, I could even find the fabled land that the elves claim to hail from-"

"I said no!" Rhaena declared, as her hands suddenly tightened on Elissa's breast and head.

When Elissa let out a small yelp, Rhaena caught herself, and let go.

She swallowed, and then set a gentler hand on the Trembling Elissa's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but no. Please, understand. I just… I just could not bear for you to leave me. You understand that, right, my love?"

Elissa looked at her for a long moment, her breast's flesh still red from where Rhaena had gripped it.

She then brushed off Rhaena's hand, rose to her feet, dressed, and walked out of the room.

Rhaena let loose a sigh as she rubbed at her face.

It was fine.

She would understand. She had to.

Why would she ever want to leave?

Why would anyone ever want to leave her?

* * *

_As the years passed, the royal family was graced with five more births; Aemon (from Alyssane) and Lorezza (Delora) Targaryen in 55 AC, and then Baelon (Alysanne) and Oberyn and Daeron (Delora) Targaryen in 57 AC, and the realm cheered. _

_Of course, there was great interest in regards to the half-elven, all of whom were now four years of age. _

_Overall, the realm continued to prosper, as the trade agreement with Beleriand brought new goods and work and trade to Westeros and the Six Kingdoms, while the roads were built and lengthened and paved. Elven artisans even made their way to King's Landing to aid in its expansion and construction. Looking back, many would consider it the true start of the Targaryen Golden age._

_Alas, all within the realm was not well, especially upon the isle of Dragonstone…_

* * *

_57 AC_

_4 years later_

_Dragonstone_

That bitch! The thieving, lying, conniving whore!

Such thoughts raged and ran through Rhaena's mind as she flew Dreamfyre towards King's Landing. The additions that Jae's precious elves had made to it made the city look like an eyesore in Rhaena's opinion.

Soon enough, she landed in the courtyard of the Red Keep and strode through the Red Keep towards her brother's solar.

As she slammed open the door to his solar, he rose from his desk. "Sister?"

"That lying whore stole three dragon eggs," Rhaena said.

Despite the circumstances, it was almost amusing to see the shock on her little brother's face. "Who are you talking about? Who stole three eggs?"

"Elissa, my… good-sister. She fled from Dragonstone, and then three grooms discovered that she had fled with three dragon eggs."

Her little brother's brows then furrowed. "Why? Why would she take them? To hatch? Does she hope to style herself a dragonlord?"

Rhaena shook her head. "Elissa has never held any love for dragons. "It was gold that she wants, gold to build a ship. That whore will sell the eggs, the damned things are -"

"-worth a fleet of ships," Jaehaerys finished.

He crossed his arms. "If those eggs should hatch, then there will be another dragonlord in the world and one not of our house."

"That's fucking ridiculous, there's little chance they would hatch," Rhaena counted. "The maesters say that without the heat of Dragonstone, they won't hatch, they may just turn to stone."

"Then we best hope that some spice monger in Pentos will find himself possessed of nothing more than three very costly stones. Else wise… the birth of three young dragons is not a thing that can easily be kept secret. Whoever has them will want to crow. We must set our eyes and ears in Pentos, Tyrosh, Myrs, all the Free Cities. We shall offer rewards for any word of dragons, no matter where that word will come from."

"So, what exactly do you intend to do?" Rhaena asked.

To her surprise, he glared at her and walked forward until they were face to face. For what seemed like the first time, she realized how taller than her he was. "I will do what I must, and you will do what _you_ must. Do not think that you will be able to wash your hands of this, sweet sister. You are the one who asked for Dragonstone, and I gave it to you. I gave it to you, and you brought this woman there. This thief."

He turned back to his desk and started to write out something on a parchment. "Should those dragons turn up, anywhere from here to Yi Ti, then we will demand their return. They were stolen from us, and they are ours by right and blood. If that demand should be denied, then we must needs to go and retrieve them, by force if necessary. We take them back if we can, and we will kill them if we cannot. If it should come to that, then three hatchlings have not a chance in any of the Seven Hells of standing against Vermithor and Dreamfyre."

"You neglected to mention Silverwing," Rhaena interjected. "Our cousin-"

"Alys had no part in this," Jaehaerys said. "I will not put her at risk.

This little shit. Rhaena still quashed down her rage and kept a tight smile on her face. "Of course. I understand. She is Rhaenys, and I am but Visenya. I have never thought otherwise."

"Do not think that you can fucking jape about this, sister," Jae hissed. "All of this, it is on your head. Thanks to you, we may yet end up in a war with the Free Cities, and all as a result of _your_ shortsightedness. Whatever may happen from this, it will be on _your _head. Do you understand?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, brother and sister, king and former queen.

"…Perfectly," Rhaena finally said.

There was nothing more to be said at that moment, and so she left, back to Dreamfyre, and back to Dragonstone.

* * *

_Since the flight of Lady Elissa from Dragonstone with the three dragon eggs, there had come upon the island a strange and unhappy air, full of tension. None seemed more affected than her Ladyship's husband, Androw. He had become something of an object of derision upon the island, not respected by any upon the island, especially his own wife. One argument even culminated in her screaming at him that "the wrong Farman ran away!" _

_It was even said by Lady Alayne Royce that the marriage, never passionate to begin with, had become as a mummer's farce, and not even an entertaining one at that._

* * *

**The Queen on Dragonstone**

Rhaena stared up at the ceiling from where she lay upon the bed, thinking about nothing in particular.

Thankfully, there had been little in the way of night terrors, though, like always, she heard those words, over and over again.

_"A child. A CHILD!"_

Her musings and the echoes of the monster's yells were then interrupted and dissipated by a soft kiss upon her neck, and a hand tracing up and down her stomach.

She turned and looked into the pretty face of Cassella Staunton.

"Is everything alright, my lady?" the pretty fourteen-year-old asked, concern in her pretty blue eyes.

Rhaena stared into those pretty eyes, and then kissed her distractedly and petted her head. "Yes, everything is. Worry not, my sweet."

Cassella smiled sweetly and then proceeded to trail a line of kisses down Rhanea's neck, while Rhaena massaged the girl's pert breasts, eliciting from the girl a moan.

Tomorrow, she would perhaps call upon Alayne or Lianne…

* * *

_After five years of marriage, Androw Farman was no longer the comely stripling that the Queen in the East had married. His shoulders had become small and rounded, and his face had become puffy and fleshy. Among the court of Dragonstone, he was, at best, forgotten and ignored, as he had been during Rhaena's impromptu travels through the West following her expulsion from Fair Isle. _

_As per Culiper's writings, Androw spent most of his days either drinking, or riding his horse about the Dragonstone courtyard, but never beyond into the island itself. Other times, he remained in his room at odd hours of the day._

_The only one upon the island who treated him with any kindness was princess Aerea. They were often observed walking about the castle together or sitting about the Chamber of the Painted Table, where many liked to jape that the two were planning another Conquest of Westeros. The little princess had even taken it upon herself to teach her illiterate step-father how to read, though Androw was mocked incessantly and cruelly for it by Rhaena and her favorites when this was discovered. _

_But the brother of Elissa was not the only one to feel neglected or angry. Wild Rhaella was often clashing with her mother and had become the terror of the castle. She was angry and upset at having had to leave King's landing, as well as the elf maiden Aredhel, to whom she and her sister regarded as their mother in all but name. Upon one occasion, after one of the countless arguments with Queen Rhaena, she had proceeded to dump upon Androw's head the contents of an entire chamber pot. This behavior only increased after Rhaena forbade her and her sister from writing to Ardehel in far-off Dorne._

_And it would only grow more sorrowful for all who lived upon that island, most specifically for Rhaena, in the year of 57 AC…. _

* * *

There was sickness on Dragonstone.

It was not the sweating sickness, that much was known. It started with a bloody stool, then cramping of the gut, and finally death.

There was sickness on Dragonstone, and Rhaena was frightened.

Culiper was the first to die. Culiper, with his bent back, jangling chain, and his wispy long beard.

He died spitting up blood and choking.

A new maester was sent for from the citadel, but before he arrived, the sickness continued its dread trail.

The next to die was pretty Casella. A few days later, gorgeous Septa Maryam died as well, followed by plump Alayne, and big and boisterous Sam Stokeworth. They died on the same day, on the same night, within hours of each other.

Casella had died weeping with a mouth full of blood and telling Rhaena that she loved her between her cries of pain, holding onto Rhaena's hand tightly.

Rhaena had said nothing, and she could say nothing.

After the third death, Rhaena ordered the gates barred and closed. The smallfolk were not yet affected, and she was determined to keep it that way.

Days went by, while all within the castle walls waited and wondered who would be struck down next.

Though nothing more seemed to occur, she sent word to Jaehaerys, and he responded by saying that he had dispatched the Velaryon fleets to make sure that no one, highborn or smallfolk, could escape the island.

Then, beautiful little Lianna complained of a pain in her gut.

Swiftly, she was bled, purged, covered with ice. The new Maester, Anselm, he had tried everything. But it was to no avail.

Lianna died convulsing in Rhaena's arms, weeping and crying out for her uncle as she expired.

As she wept over her cousin's body where it lay on her bed, she heard soft footsteps, and Rhaena looked up to behold Androw, with his puffy face and fleshy form, and his tunic with hits ever-present wine stains.

He looked upon her tear-stained face and Lianna's twisted form for a long moment. "You weep most bitterly for her," he then said. "You wept for all of them. But would you weep for your daughters? Would you weep for me?"

As he uttered those words, Rhaena felt welling inside her a rage deep and black and terrible, such as she had rarely felt before.

With that anger, she rose and raked him across his face with her nails, and he cried out in pain and fell to the floor.

"Get out," she cried, his blood dripping from her fingers. "Get out, you pathetic lump of a man. Get out, and leave me alone!"

"And alone you will be," he said, as he held a hand to his bleeding face, "that little one there was the last of them."

* * *

**The Elf-Friend**

It had been over several days now, and Jae felt at a loss for what to do.

None of his lords knew what to make of what was happening on Dragonstone, not even Celeborn, and Jae was at his wit's end.

Then, one evening, Jae was approached by Lord Maglor. "Your Grace, I have plucked some strings, and they bring back worrying news about what is occurring on Dragonstone."

"What is it then?"

His lord of whispers sighed. "It is a poison that is running rampant, not sickness."

"Poison?"

The sorrowful elf nodded. "Indeed. A most insidious thing known as the tears of Lys. It is why the maester was struck down first. A man of learning such as he would have been able to discern what it was."

"…Only women have been struck down," Jae slowly said.

"Indeed, because it is only women that have been poisoned. Most curious."

Jae wasted no time in rushing towards Grand Maester Benifer, and the rookery…

* * *

**The Queen in the West**

"Find him!" Rhaena screamed. "Find me that fucking bastard!" she declared as she angrily strode through Dragonstone, followed by her men-at-arms and captain of the guard.

When given the notion that maybe he had escaped via a dragon, she had shot down the notion immediately. "He is nothing but a cowardly worm. He has not even a tenth of the courage needed for such an escape."

As they searched through the castle, they had found Maester Anselm dead, his head removed from his shoulders.

Eventually, they found Androw, sat at the Painted Table… and he was not alone.

Standing before was a fearful-looking Aerea, dried tears on her cheeks, and his hand firmly on her small shoulder. Androw also clutched a sword tightly in his other hand, the edge covered in dried blood.

"Mama!" she cried out as Rhaena and her guards slowly filtered into the room.

Androw looked up, disdain in his small eyes. "Wife. So glad you have come. Aerea and I have been waiting here for you, and for a good while now."

Rhaena clenched her fists tightly. "So, the worm things to fight a dragon, does he? Even as he hides behind a useless little whelp? Tell me truthfully, worm; was it you?"

Androw's eyes narrowed on his fleshy face. "I hold your own daughter hostage, and you still think so little of her? You offer her no words of comfort, only disdain? Fuck this. Aye. It was me. I brought them cups of wine, and deeply did they all drink of that wine. They _thanked_ me, and they drank that sweet, sweet wine. And why would they not thank me? Who have I ever been to them but a cupbearer, a _servant_? That was how they all saw me, how you saw me. Androw the sweet. Androw the small. Androw the jape. What could _I _do, but fall off the dragon? What could I do, but be laughed at, mocked, and scorned?"

He started to tremble. "Well, I could have done a great deal of things. I could have been a great lord. I could have made great laws and been wise and given you good counsel. I could have killed your enemies, as easily as I killed your _friends_. _I could have given you children!"_

Rhaena's hands tightened like as claws, but did not answer him. "Take this pathetic worm, and then geld him, but staunch the wound. I want his cock and balls fried up and fed to him. Do not let the bastard die until he has eaten every last bite."

"But, your grace, what about your daughter?"

"Who gives a shit about the whelp? He can slit her throat for all I care, so long as he dies! Just do what I fucking say and kill this monster!" she screamed.

As little Aerea began to cry and the guards slowly moved around the painted table, Androw shook his head. "No. One monster can fly, and thus so can I."

In an oddly smooth motion, he pushed little Aerea away, slashed ineffectively at the man nearest him, and then leaped straight out the window behind him.

Even as he fell, he did not once scream.

Rhaena looked at that empty window for a long moment, and then down at Aerea, who still lay weeping on the floor.

Her daughter looked up, and then scrambled away.

Rhaena made no move to follow her.

All she could hear was _his_ voice, over and over.

_"A child! A child! A CHILD!"_

* * *

_After Androw Farman's spree-killing of Rhaena's favorites and friends, the isle and residents of Dragonstone seemed to grow wearier and more morose. _

_Little Aerea, already a demure and quiet child, grew more and more withdrawn and sorrowful, often going whole days without saying a single word, and when she did speak, it would only be in elvish, a language that she and her sister were raised to speak during their time in Beleriand, and thus she only really spoke to Rhaella. This only infuriated Queen Rhaena further, for she bore great hatred for all things elvish, though Aerea never spoke to her. Wild and angry Rhaella, wroth at the state of her sister, blamed Queen Rhaena for it, thus giving the girl impunity to direct all her vitriol upon her distant and angry mother. Loud and long and wrathful were the arguments that echoed between the two throughout Dragonstone at almost all times of the day._

_The only bright spot was when she and her more sedate sister each claimed for themselves a newborn dragon hatchling from the hatcheries of Dragonstone. For Rhaella, a majestic-looking and powerful creature of purple and gold that she named Sunchaser, while for quiet Aerea, a demure and lithe beast of blue and purple and turquoise to whom she gave the elvish name Telumendil, after the elvish name for one of the constellations of the night sky. _

_But, aside from that happy moment, there was little else that could give joy on the island. Rhaella grew more wrathful and wilder, Aerea more withdrawn and quieter, and Rhaena became more distant and angrier, with the children finding solace only in the company of their dragons and each other._

_As for Androw, whose corpse Rhaena had fed to the island's dragons, all on the island learned quickly to never even mention his name, lest Rhaena fly into a great wroth. _

_And, like the volcano upon which Dragonstone had been built, the anger only kept growing and growing…._

* * *

**The White Lady**

_One month after the events of Dragonstone_

_Starfall_

The warm breeze snuck in through the open bedroom window and caressed her face like a kindly touch of a lover.

Slowly, Aredhel opened her eyes and peered through the tangled curtain of her hair, the sheets of the bed tangled against her bare skin.

Her eyes took in the room that she and her husband shared, and sighed in contentment.

Warm breath tickled the back of her neck. "Good morning," said her knight and Lord of Stars.

Aredhel chuckled as she shifted and turned over to face her love, grey eyes meeting purple.

"It is a good morning, isn't it?" she replied.

Little more was then said, and Ulrick and she kissed deeply, as her husband's hand caressed her womb, greatly swelled with child.

"How I wish we could stay like this, forevermore," he said between kisses and caresses.

"We could, but then everyone would wonder where we had gone," Aredhel said, as she playfully nipped at his lip a bit. "Besides, that is how we ended up with sweet Elbereth, and this one as well."

As if to punctuate that, the one within gave a small kick. Ulrick chuckled, gave her another kiss, and then they slowly rose from the bed.

After they had bathed and dressed, a scampering of feet and the door being flung open announced the third member of their family, and soon Aredhel found her arms full as they wrapped around her and Ulrick's daughter, laughter echoing about the room as she briefly lifted up their daughter.

She then set her down, and Aredhel had a good look at their little one.

At only four years of age, Elbereth Anairë Nymeria Dayne was already a very tall child for her age, with a great shock of silver-black hair, olive skin, and eyes that were a peculiar mixture of purple and grey that always seemed to gleam with joy and happiness, along with her happy smile.

Aredhel brushed back her daughter's unruly tresses, revealing one of her pointed ears, and kissed her daughter's forehead. "Good morning, little star queen. Are you ready for breakfast?"

Elbereth nodded rapidly, and then pulled both her parents by their hands. "Yes, yes! We're having honeycomb this morning, mama!"

"Are we now?" Ulrick said. "Then we best hurry up, should we not?"

Laughing, the Lord and lady of Starfall allowed themselves to be led by their four-year-old daughter by their hands to the dining room, which opened up to a terrace that overlooked Starfall's harbor.

The morning's breakfast consisted of oat cereals, fruits fresh and candied, baked fish, and several jugs of milk, alongside the honeycomb whose presence Elbereth had proudly declared.

It was all delicious. Indeed, the little one in her womb seemed to agree.

While Elbereth babbled about everything she would be learning today with the master and the master-at-arms, the ambiance of the room was broken by the approaching footsteps of Starfall's maester, a rather portly and genial man named Ralk.

"My lady," the maester said as he shuffled towards her. "A message has arrived for you from Queen Alyssane."

With a raised brow, she took the message, and then unfurled and read it, her grey eyes scanning the page.

"What is it?" Ulrick asked.

"Alysanne has summoned me to meet her on Dragonstone. She requires my help. It seems things on that island have grown worse. This is an urgent matter. She says that Aerea and Rhaella need her and me. I need to go."

Ulrick rose from his seat. "I'll have an escort of ships ready for you within a few hours then." He then called out for the servants to ready Aredhel's things.

"Mama?" Elbereth asked, as concern danced on her little face. "What's going on? Why do you have to leave?"

Aredhel gave a small smile to her daughter as she gingerly knelt by her side. "You remember my friend, queen Alyssane? Well, right now, she needs my help. So, I have to go, because that is what good friends do; they help one another. But worry not… I will be back before you know it. I promise."

She kissed her daughter's forehead, and then rose, and graced her husband with a kiss.

A few hours later, Aredhel was sailing down the Torentine and into the Summer Sea, and then up towards Dragonstone

* * *

**Queen of the Moon and the West**

The moment she had sent off the letter to Dorne, Alyssane had then promptly saddled Silverwing, and flown to Dragonstone.

She had arrived hoping to comfort her sister but had been continuously rebuffed. Alyssane had also learned that even the mere mention of Androw or Elissa was enough to send Rhaena into a terrible rage.

When she had arrived, Rhaean had actually screamed at her, in front of witnesses to leave.

But Alys stood firm against her rage.

Eventually, Rhaena simply retreated to her rooms and kept the door barred, only venturing out for meals, and that became less and less frequent.

With little from her cousin, Alyssane went about restoring a modicum of order to the castle. She sent word to the citadel for a new master, the garrison restructured and revitalized, for Rhaena had sent many guards and the old captain away in a black rage. Alys even sent for her good friend, Septa Edyth, to replace the dead Septa Maryam.

More than that, the Queen of the Moon turned to her two little cousins and their new hatchlings, though Aerea would hardly speak, and only in fragments of elvish, which Alyssane regrettably did not know all that well.

As for Rhaella, when she was not translating her sister's words… there was only rage.

When Alys had tried to comfort her and console her about the deaths, Rhaella had been dismissive. "Why should we care if they're all dead? The bitch will just find new ones; that's what she always does! She just gets new toys, new dolls to play with! Why should this be any different?"

Though, Rhaella and Aerea seemed… hopeful when they were told that Aredhel would be coming to the island as well.

Aside from that, neither her cousin nor her nieces spoke much to Alys, and so the days passed.

Then came word from the lookouts and watchers.

At the sight of Dayne and Swann ships sighted off the coast of Dragonstone, Alyssane went down to the docks to await her friend's arrival, alongside Rhaella and Aerea.

Soon enough, the lead ship docked, and Aredhel disembarked upon the docks of Dragonstone, accompanied by a contingent of guards dressed in the livery of Dayne. Aredhel herself was dressed in a gown of purple, silver, and white, and her black hair was unbound.

Though her friend's belly was greatly swelled with child, Alyssane could not help but still be transfixed by Aredhel's beauty.

"Hello, dear Alyssane," the elven lady said as they held the other's hands.

"Hello, Aredhel. It is good that you came."

A moment later, Aerea and Rhaella ran up and hugged Aredhel tightly, the two princesses bursting into tears, while their dragons flitted about fretfully. "Please! You must take us, take us back with you! We'll even go with you to Dorne! Anywhere but here! Please don't leave us here! You don't know what it's like, with her! Please!" Rhaella cried out through her sobs.

Aerea simply wept and spoke quietly in soft elvish, tears streaming down her face.

Aredhel softly returned the girls embraces and stroked their heads, though her grey eyes rose to meet Alyssane's blue ones, an unspoken message passing between them. "Not to worry, dear hearts. All will be well. I promise you."

She then stood up.

"We shall talk with my sister," said Alyssane.

* * *

_Later_

"What is she doing here, _cousin_?" Rhaena hissed.

When she had ventured for her room for a meal, Alyssane and Aredhel had been waiting for her in the dining room.

"Lady Aredhel is here at my request, cousin. She is here to help," Alyssane answered. "Your daughters know and love her, just as she knows and loves them."

"Oh, is that so? Does she think herself their mother then? Did you whelp them into this world, knife-ear?" Rhaena hissed.

Before Alyssane could reprimand her for the insult, Aredhel spoke. "They are not happy here, on this island," Aredhel stated. "It would be better for them if they were to return to the mainland, lest they waste away here in sorrow. Surely, you must realize this. But, if you do, then for what possible reason would you deny them their happiness?"

"I don't give a _shit_ what they think! They are my daughters, mine! I carried the fucking things in my belly for nine months. I pushed the little creatures out of my cunt as they screamed and cried! But you do not care, do you?" Rhaena screamed at her and Alys, her purple eyes wide and angry. "You have everything, cousin. You and Jae and that dornish slut of yours have the throne, the throne that should have been _mine_! You and your knife-eared freaks should content yourself with that, but my daughters are mine! Not yours! Will you not let me have at least this?"

Alyssane sighed. She did not want it to have to come to this. "Then it is no longer a request, sister. My authority supersedes yours. Aerea and Rhaella will be returning to the mainland with us on the morrow."

To her dying day, Alyssane still would never truly believe what had happened next.

Rhaena's eyes went wide and then, with a cry of _rage_, had _lunged _towards her, hands outstretched like claws towards her neck.

But, just as like at Jonquil's Pool, Aredhel protected her. Despite her state of pregnancy, it seemed as if she hardly moved, and then she was in front of Alys, seamlessly held Rhaena back with little effort.

"You don't know your daughters, for you were not there for them when they were growing up. Then, when you had the chance to be reunited with them after Maegor's demise, you never made the effort to reach out to them," Aredhel said calmly, even as she held back Rhaena from scratching out her eyes. "Instead, you left them with your siblings, and you flew away to Fair Isle.

"You only see them as objects to possess, not as the wonderful children that they are. Aerea told me what you said of her when your husband held her as his hostage, how you cared not if she lived or died."

Aredhel's grey eyes seemed to bore into Rhaena with a calm and pitying disdain. "At that moment, you lost any and all right to call yourself their mother, Rhaena Targaryen."

With that, she calmly and gently sent Rhaena staggering back with a light push.

Never before had Alyssane seen her sister look so enraged, so full of hatred.

As she regained her footing, her hands clenched like claws, she then screamed at them. "Fine then! Take the fucking little ungrateful creatures! Take them, and if you had any sense, you would throw them overboard and drown them in the Narrow Sea! Take them, and then go fuck yourselves! You, and all the others who have kept me from what is mine! Take them, and then leave!"

Alyssane sighed sadly. "I am sorry for this, dear cousin. Truly I am."

"JUST LEAVE! LEAVE, AND NEVER DARKEN MY SIGHT AGAIN!"

With that, Rhaena stormed away.

Alyssane let loose another sigh and turned to Aredhel, who looked upon her with kindly pity. "We shall leave first thing on the morrow," Alyssane said.

"Aye. The sooner they are away from this place and her, the happier all will be, I believe," Aredhel said.

After that, there was little more to be said.

* * *

**The Queen of the East**

As she watched the boat sail away from Dragonstone, Rhaena's hand clenched at her side.

Damn them. Damn them!

First Elissa, and now those wretched little spawnlings!

Damn them all!

_Indeed._

The voice, and the sound of soft footsteps, made the first grandchild of Aegon turn.

It was a strange figure, covered in a strange radiance, and it seemed neither male nor female.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "How did you get here? Answer me, or I shall scream for the guards."

_You can do that if they wish, but they will see nothing. _

_As for who I am? I am someone who sympathizes with you, Queen Rhaena. Truly, you deserve so much more._

"You don't know anything about me," she said.

The figure tilted their head. _Don't I? I know that it should have been you who ruled these lands, not your weak siblings. Just as I know that they are all afraid you, and rightly so. _

_They have all turned their back upon you. They scoff at all that you have suffered, and all that you have been forced to endure. They laugh at you behind your back and force you to hide what they flaunt openly. They laugh at you, and they leave you behind in the forgotten dust. They make you suffer, and take glee from your suffering. You suffer because they could not bear to see you greater than they._

_But that can change. _You _can change it._

Somehow, Rhaena knew that it spoke the truth, but she was still hesitant. "How can it change? How can any of it ever change? It has been this way for millennia, held fast by men with little cocks and large swords."

_It can change through power. A power that is, and has always been, yours by right._

It drew closer to her, and yet… she felt no fear.

_When your grandfather held you, it is said that he wept. He did. He wept tears of awe and joy, for he knew that he held in his arms one who would be a true and grand queen. A true heir of the Dragon. He alone knew what you had the potential, the_ destiny_, to become. _

_The others knew too, and so they took every opportunity to stifle you, to suffocate your potential, to stifle you, to smother your destiny, to keep you small. Your father, your husband… your brother._

_They fear true dragons, for that is what you are, and so for that, they have always tried to beat you down, to turn all who you loved against you. _

_You deserve better. You always have. _

The shining figure then bowed before her and held out a hand.

Upon the palm rested a golden ring.

"A ring?" Rhaena said with disdain. "And what is the point of it, of this little trinket that you offer to me?"

_This, oh mighty Queen in the East, is no mere trinket, I assure you. This is something that will help you achieve true and endless power. A power that should have been yours, that has always been yours, despite the protestations of any man. _

_Take it, and be lesser to none on this continent. Take it, and take that which should have been yours from birth. _

For a long moment, Rhaena felt weighed down by hesitation.

Then thoughts unbidden came to her.

Her father, marrying her to her brother.

Aegon's foolishness, and how he never truly heeded her.

Maegor's brutish face as he held her down and defiled her, over and over.

Alyssane and the dornish slut, holding hands so tenderly in public.

Her daughters, embracing that knife-eared freak.

Everyone, standing before her, laughing and sneering.

She then looked over her shoulder towards the Narrow Sea.

With one last glance towards the departing ships, Rhaena snarled and all but snatched up the ring.

As she held it in her hand, she felt… grand.

Complete.

The figure then knelt before her in grand supplication. _Truly, you are a queen. And a queen you shall be._

"When can we bring this change down upon their heads?" She asked as she slipped the ring upon her finger and warmth infused her being. "When can we drown them all in Fire and Blood, and bring forth something better?"

_Soon. We promise_…

* * *

In the closing weeks of the 57th year after Aegon's conquest, Rhaena Targaryen, sister and wife to an uncrowned king, unwilling wife to a second king, and first grandchild of the Aegon the Conqueror vanished from the Isle of Dragonstone without a trace, alongside her dragon, Dreamfyre….

* * *

_Like Beren Hightower in the Reach, my father, Tybalt-Tuor Lannister is one of the most beloved figures in the post-conquest era of Westerland history. _

_One of the grandsons of the Last King of the Westerlands, my father grew up as most heirs of powerful lords did, with the best of everything at his fingertips. Though, it was said that he oft felt at home about the sea, and even among the docks of Lannisport. _

_My father was always and ever accompanied by his cousin, Royland Reyne. My siblings and I were often regaled with the tale of how they met; It was in Casterly Rock's training yard, where Roy was training as a squire._

_One day, while both were still very young, my father strode right up to Royland and declared to his face that Royland would be his protector from then on and that there was no point arguing about it. _

_In response, Uncle Roy punched father in the face, and the two soon began scrapping on the ground with fists and punches, and such before they were pulled apart by the master-at-arms. They were made to clean out the stables for a week._

_Still, from that day on, though, Roy and Tu were neigh-on inseparable, with Roy ever my father's loyal and guarding shadow. _

_In their youth, Tu and Roy had many adventures together. My siblings and I grew up with tales of their travels across Westeros and even Essos, from Braavos to even the city of Volantis, and the island of Naath. _

_Many tales are told of my father's lackadaisical attitude towards life, his accomplishments as Master of Coin under King Jaehaerys I, or his adventures (and misadventures) alongside Uncle Royland. And yes, there are many songs sung about him and my mother, but very few can truly encapsulate the man that he was, great and small parts included. _

_He was a jokester, and ever eager to laugh. But he was also firm when needed, else he would not have been able to keep his younger half-siblings in check for so long. _

_None of the tales tell of his teaching us all about finances, or making us laugh with funny and outrageous tales and songs, or how he and mother ever went about barefoot every chance they got. _

_He loved to laugh, but he was never weak. _

_But more than that, my father loved, and he loved deeply and fiercely. He loved my mother, and he loved me and my siblings until his final breath…_

_And I miss him, every day. _

_Excerpt from _Hear Us Roar: A History of House Lannister and the West

_Penned by Eärendil Lannister_

* * *

_What I remember the most about my father was his kindness, humble attitude, and his quiet, almost sorrowful demeanor, though he did on occasion laugh. _

_Many only remember him for his quest to Valyria, which of course won him the hand of my mother, but he was more than just songs and ballads and folk tales. _

_He was my father. He taught me and my sister how to be kind, how to stand up for what was needed, how to survive, and how to never take our lot in life for granted or to look down upon anyone else, high or small. He was my father, and he loved my mother and his children for all his days. _

_I sometimes wonder if he would be proud of me, of what I have accomplished, and what I have done, just as I wonder the same about my mother._

_I wonder if they would be proud of me, and all I have done and been forced to do. _

_Perhaps, if we ever meet again, whether in this life or the next, I will ask them, even if I fear what that answer will be... _

_From _Green Hands and High Towers: The Saga of House Hightower and the Kings of the Reach

_Penned by Dior, son of Beren and Luthien_

* * *

_There are many houses great and small throughout the history and span of the Six Kingdoms, from the proud Arryns of the Vale to the defiant Martells of Dorne. _

_But there is a house that has always occupied a rather odd and immovable station in Westeros' history. That house is House Swann. _

_Unlike the rest of the Six Kingdom's houses, who claim descent from either the First Men, Andals, Rhoynar, or Valyrians (or unknown, in regards to the Hightowers), the Swanns originate from the people of the Summer Isles._

_According to the histories of the House, their origins begin in the ancient days when the Stormlands rested under the tempestuous hands of the Durrandon Storm Kings, in the bygone eras of the Dawn Age and the Age of Heroes. _

_The ancient Summer islanders believed that their islands were the only lands in all the world and that the rest was nothing but endless ocean. As such, any boats that they crafted were only able to travel between islands. _

_Then, it is said that a great many of the island's priests and priestesses had a vision of two swans, one black and one white, flying towards the north and settling in a nest of stone under a storm. _

_At the behest of these priests and soothsayers, a great many of the clans and princes and princesses and their followers pooled together their resources in the construction of a great and massive migratory fleet. Then, they bid their people goodbye and set sail for new horizons. _

_There are many tales passed down through House Swann of the fleet's trials and tribulations, ranging from leviathans to pirates, with the most memorable of the latter being a great battle with a pirate fleet in the Stepstones, where the goldenheart bows were plied to great effect, and a great deal of the pirate ships were captured, though several of the migratory fleet's ships were in turn sunk. _

_Eventually, the ships docked off the coast of the Stormlands, and made landfall on Cape Wrath._

_It is not entirely known which Storm King eventually met with the representatives of the fleet. The Swanns themselves claim that it was the Godsgrief himself that bid them welcome, but that seems unlikely at best. Nevertheless, the unknown Durrandon soon embraced these strange new travelers with open arms, especially when he saw firsthand the power of their goldenheart bow and powerful ships and spices and animals and gems and seeds brought with them from the islands… including seeds for more goldenheart trees, the cultivation of which only House Swann know and jealously guard. _

_The travelers were given unclaimed lands in Cape Wrath, and so House Swann of Stonehelm was born. They then sent several ships back to the Summer Islands, brining tales the new lands they had discovered, and the new home they had found. Thus, did the Summer Isle's Age of Exploration begin, and thus did the fortunes of the new House Swann begin to blossom and grow. _

_The house's coat of arms is per pale argent and sable, two swans combatant countercharged, beaked and membered, all within an orle of red and green and yellow feathers volant sable._

_The House occupies an odd place in the political scene of Westeros. Though officially sworn to the rulers of the Stormlands, House Swann's loyalties lie with itself and the Summer Isles, and thus remains in an odd area of neutrality in the political landscape. The House's access to the Summer islands' resources and trading fleets and war fleets and networks has not only made the house one of the wealthiest in Westeros but also a house most are ever so keen to marry into, if only for access to the aforementioned fleets and networks, as well as even partial access to the goldenheart trees. Every generation, the House will hold great and semi-ritualized contests where the contestants; the sons and daughters of other houses great and small, participate for the honor of marrying the sons and daughters of the House of Swann. _

_It is customary for several members of the family to make pilgrimages down to the summer islands and return with brides and husbands and lovers and renewed deals. _

_Like their ancestors, the members of House Swann are all strong and tall, with skin colors including nut brown, teak, ebony, and polished jet, though many have paler complexions as well, and a wide variety of eye and hair colors are found in the house and its cadet branches. Like their fellows on the Summer Isles, they wear capes of brightly-colored feathers alongside their other finery. _

_Unlike the rest of the Stormlands, House Swann as a whole does not worship the Seven, for they instead follow the many gods and goddesses of the Summer Isles, including the gods and goddesses of love, fertility, and beauty. Suffice to say, there is a good deal of brothels in the towns and holdings that House Swann lord over. There are many who snicker in their cups that the Swanns produce more 'storms' and 'sands' then all of Dorne and the Stormlands. It is also worth noting that they are one of the only Marcher Lord Houses to have a rather amicable relationship with the Kingdom of Dorne. _

_The house is possessed of many Cadet branches spread out over Westeros. One of its many cadet branches is House Swann of Scorpion Harbor in Dorne. Another is House Swann of Darkdell in the Reach, who had married into the ancient house Vyrwel, which had died out in the male line centuries ago. _

_Their family words are 'Strong, Bright, and Graceful.'_

_From _Houses and Histories of Westeros and the World

_by Maester Yandel_

* * *

_The atani… _

_They frighten me._

_I had occasion to observe these men (and women) who serve under the rulers of the northern continent, the nation of Beleriand, whilst they accompanied their ageless masters to Oldtown and Dorn and The Westerlands. I even was able to speak with a few._

_They are a tall folk, shorter than their lords, but taller than most men of Westeros, and their eyes range from pale to a deep grey. I was almost expecting them to sprout pointed ears as well. _

_They answered any of my inquiries, at least those they deigned to answer, with short, curt sentences. On the whole, however, they seemed approachable, friendly even._

_But that is the part that frightens me._

_They bear no hatred, nor vitriol towards any living thing. In a strange way, they are innocent, bound up by discipline and order and loyalty to their lords and masters. But, if their masters were to order them to raze all that stood before them to the ground, I am sure that the atani would obey this order without question. It would be fulfilled without vitriol or anger. It would simply be done. _

_Woe befall Westeros if ever war with Beleriand becomes a reality, for the atani will be its vanguard, and they will be relentless._

_In addition, no brothel made note of any atani, male or female, sampling of their wares..._

_From the writings of Maester Florin_

* * *

**A/N: Hello everyone. Sorry for the lateness of the chapter. I hope that you enjoy it, though. Many wheels are slowly turning, as you no doubt can see. **

**I have made some changes to the story. Aerea and Rhaella were also spirited away to Beleriand, where Aredhel basically became as a surrogate mother to them. **

**As for Rhaena… while you can all no doubt see what she will become, I am not trying to make her two-dimensional. I wanted to give clear, concrete reasons. **

**Rhaena is a character who has suffered much. She had to give away her daughters to keep them safe, she was basically raped by her own mad uncle for years, she was forced to really hide her sexual orientation from the rest of Westeros, she was betrayed by the woman she loved, she watched as her other lovers were all murdered by her husband/ beard, and, also, she was hated by her daughters in favor of an elf. In addition, she was passed over and spurned from a throne that should have been hers, all the while suffering from PTSD from what she endured under Maegor, and with what happened with Androw. **

**As for why she hates the elves, it is for a myriad of reasons; she thinks that they are inhuman, and that they helped Jaehaerys steal her daughters and her rightful throne from her. But, more than that, she blames them for most of what she suffered under Maegor, because Fingolfin did not kill him. **

**All that trauma, and with no one really willing, or caring, to understand or help her, even her own siblings… Rhaena simply broke. **

**And broken people, when they get angry… worlds can burn.**

**Also, I hope you find the romance bits palatable. **

**Read, review, and enjoy. **

**Also, a little bit more at the end.**

**A/N: I have changed Tybalt's name. His name is Tybalt-Tuor Lannister. The second name he gave himself.**

**A/N/M: I have added a few characters in Chapter 4. Russandol has twin children, who have accompanied him to Westeros and the Red Keep. **

* * *

**The Sweet Jape**

On the isle of Dragonstone, there are many subterranean caverns and entrances and such.

Many were unknown, and thus were the sort that could only really be discovered by accident.

Such as the one that Androw had discovered.

In hindsight, he figured that it had only been a matter of time before he had found it, wandering through the castle as much as he did. It was not like anyone was bothered enough to look for him or seek him out at any real hour of the day, save for little Aerea, and even she was not always available.

The cavern was wide, vast, and the entrance he had actually found in the painted room.

When he found it, it was there that he had heard them.

Whispers.

Caresses in his ears, whispering of dark things and dark thoughts.

They offered to help him, to make them suffer, to make _her _suffer to give him the vengeance that he deserved.

At first, he had fled. But every day after, he could not shake the memory of those whispers from his mind… and how right they were.

Every day, they laughed at him, the bitch and her hangers-on, and he knew that the cavern was waiting.

Eventually, he returned to it, to the shadows and the whispers.

He stood there, in that cavern, and all was quiet.

"You say you can help me," he then spoke aloud. "Every night, I hear you, whispering to me. You tell me what she truly is, what she has done, what they all think of me."

The shadows thickened slightly all around him, save for the light of his lantern.

"So then, here I am," he said. "I am sick of them, how they treat me, and mock me. You say you can help me, that with your help, I can achieve vengeance. Then, whatever you are, whatever price must be paid… I will pay it gladly. All I ask is that she suffers."

_There must be a price to pay. Are you truly willing to pay it, Androw Farman?_

"Gladly," he spat.

The shadows deepened to an almost solid manner. He felt more than saw something grab his hand, and felt and watched as an invisible blade sliced its way through his palm.

_In Blood, the bargain is sealed. _

The blood dripped on the floor… where it hissed as if the stone were hot.

But Androw felt no pain from the cut.

_Through tears shall she be brought low, and through tears shall you reap your vengeance. _

The blood and shadows coiled, and before him on the ground rested a corked vial.

Androw bent over and picked it up.

_Reap your vengeance, Androw Farman. But remember the price that must be paid…_

The voices whispered once more, and the shadows coiled and caressed about him, like the embrace he was so often denied. It felt sweet.

Androw nodded. "When the time comes… I will pay it gladly."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7: Sunchaser

**The Sunchaser**

From the moment that she could think coherent thoughts, Elissa Farman had always known she was different.

Where other girls enjoyed things such as sewing and dresses and horses and embroidery and singing, she liked running in the forest and climbing trees and archery… though she did enjoy singing as well. Where other girls enjoyed watching the boys in the training yards and looking at handsome knights and lords, she preferred _being_ in the training yard… and looking at the beautiful women and ladies who were busy looking at the handsome knights and lords.

Of course, some of those ladies and women looked back.

A pretty young scullery maid named Ella had been the first one who had looked back.

Many had been the late-night, furtive kisses and explorations in shadowy corners of Faircastle. But that had petered out. She was sure that Franklyn had something to do with it, the bastard.

After that, she had simply gone to… discreet brothels. They were always about if you knew where to look. They asked no questions and were more than willing to those with her tastes.

But more than that, Elissa's first and true love had been the sea, from the first moment she had set her eyes upon it, stretching its endless lengths beyond the horizon.

Since she could remember, the sea had always seemed to… sing to her. It called out to her with a strange, soundless melody.

Every day, every moment possible, she could be found on the shores and beaches, swimming and frolicking and diving deep beneath the waves. Other times, she would be at the docks, watching the ships come and go, and learning.

More than that, she indulged in that love by learning to sail. As a Farman, it was all but expected that she should know the ways of the ocean and the methods of traversing it… even if she were a woman.

She enjoyed climbing the rigging, feeling the spray of salt on her face, and the feel of wood and rope under hands. She enjoyed every moment of it.

She still remembered sailing by herself around her home, and all the way down to the Arbor. At fourteen, it had been her happiest memory, and one of her proudest achievements. Father had been so proud.

Franklyn had spat at her, and called the act 'unladylike.'

The fucking bastard.

Through it all, she always kept an eye on the west, towards the setting sun. Every day, she looked towards the horizon of the Sunset sea, and wondered what lay beyond it.

And every day, her longing for that horizon and its mysteries grew and grew.

But no one else seemed to care. At best, her peers ignored her. At worst, they mocked her, laughing behind their smiles and chains and her back. Of those who mocked and sneered at her, those mocking and sneering voices were always led by Franklyn, the swine.

Her father, when he was not busy, listened to her ideas, but there was only so much that he could do.

So, most days, she was at the docks. She helped to bring in and load up cargo to and from ships, carved out and repaired hulls, sewed up sails, caulked up leaks, and helped chart out courses on fading maps. She even learned how to speak and swear as blue as any sailor, and learned half-a-dozen different languages and dialects, such as the flowery language of the Summer Isles from a Swann Sailor.

At the same time, she learned to wield a sword and quarterstaves on both ship and land and shoot arrows from a bow on a rocking boat. At other times, she learned how to increase the amount of time that she could hold her breath, what sort of oils and fats to spread on her flesh if she was planning on diving deep beneath the surface, or swimming in the ocean for long periods of time. She fished with a spear and a net and even swam alongside a pod of singing and grinning dolphins at one point. She sang for her father and his court, accompanied by her harp. Other times, she explored the forests of Fair Isle with her dogs and hawks, and her favorite horse, a strong roan stallion that she had named Saltrunner.

Father let her do as she please, and Franklyn less so.

Despite her preferences, Father had tried to betroth her, though she had often suspected it had been at Franklyn's behest. Twice she had been betrothed, and twice it had fallen through.

The first boy had been a timid little third son of House Westerling. He had been nice enough, she supposed, but he had seemed scared of his own shadow. By the Seven, she had never heard a boy cry so much. She had barely even touched him with the sparring sword, for Seven's sake. Yet, he had gone off running and crying, snot dribbling don his nose.

The second time had been when she was sixteen. That one had been Jak Crakehall, also known as Jak the Giant. He had one of Franklyn's good friends. The man had been large, brawny, brutish, and he had seemed as swarthy, piggish, and bristly as his house's sigil. His breath had also stank of ale. There had even been talk of him fathering a bastard or two.

No wonder he and Franklyn had been friends.

At first, he had acted courteous enough, until he cupped her arse during a dance. She had slapped him in response. The next day, she had trounced and humiliated big Jak the Giant in the training yard. It helped that the man had already been quite drunk at the time.

Franklyn had been furious and embarrassed. He had always hated her, been envious of how she held Father's ear. Perhaps that envy had turned to rage in the end.

One night, he had come into her room, and his breath had stunk of wine….

"You are nothing," he had slurred into her ear.

She tried to never think of what had happened that night. She had never told anyone, either. Not even father.

Not even Rhaena.

The next day, Franklyn acted as if it had never happened, at least in public. If only that had been the end of it.

He would only come into her room when he was very drunk. Though, she suspected that he was not as drunk as he often appeared, even if his breath always reeked of alcohol.

Perhaps he enjoyed it, what he did to her, what he would whisper in her ear as he violated her, over and over again.

"You are nothing."

After the second time it had happened, she had considered drowning herself in her beloved ocean. She felt… unclean.

In fact, the night after the second time, she had snuck out of her room, evading the servants, and headed down to the shore. She had stripped off her nightdress and shoes, and had walked out bare and barefoot into the waiting waters, and had quietly submerged herself beneath the waves.

As she did so, she heard it again; the song. The song that had been the first thing she could remember hearing.

It caressed her, nurtured her, and whispered kind, soundless things into her ears. It held her close, like a lover.

It told her that she would survive this. That she would be strong, and that nothing would ever break her.

Franklyn had hoped to subdue her, to bully, and break her into submission.

But he would not break her. She would not be broken. She would never be broken, and especially not by him.

Elissa would be as the sea, as the endless ocean.

Unyielding.

Incomparable.

And great.

For the most part, she simply made sure that he never touched her again.

The last time he came to her rooms, stinking of wine as ever, she had been more than ready. When he entered, she had promptly broken his nose. That sent him fleeing, and he was squealing like the pig that he was, that he had always been.

After that, he never returned to her rooms. He hardly ever deigned to look at her.

He still tried to control her in other ways, but she knew he would never win. Not ever again.

She was strong… and he was weak.

She was the ocean… and he would drown within her depths.

* * *

She had always paid some attention to the affairs of the realm at large, for the most part. But, when one lives on an island, there was only so much that could be learned and absorbed from the mainland. It also made it more than a bit difficult to really care. Even as the Swords and Stars went into open revolt against the king and his family, it did not really make much of a difference to Elissa.

There was only the sea, her maps, her ships, and the horizon.

Then Maegor became king, and slew Aegon and his ragged army at the God's eye. Elissa grew feared, like everyone else, but she still was on her island.

Still, only the song could comfort her.

As ever, the horizon beckoned.

Then came Queen Rhaena Targaryen, the Grandaughter of Aegon himself, and it was if a bridge had been built between Elissa's island and the rest of the world.

She had first arrived from the sky upon her mighty dragon, like some divine figure from a foreign religion.

Elissa had been returning from the docks when the Queen had arrived, and when their eyes had first met… she had been entranced.

She had been so very beautiful; long silver hair that feel past the small of her back; inviting purple eyes the color of shining amethysts; and a lean, full-bosomed figure with flawless skin. To have called her like a goddess would have been a gross understatement.

Across the room, their eyes had met… and it seemed as if everything else had just faded away.

Even the sea's song seemed muted when Elisa looked into those endless eyes.

Throughout the entire feast, they had… just talked.

The next day, they had met again and… they had talked. They talked of Fair Isle, and everything and nothing.

They talked and walked among the beaches of Fair Isle and they talked until the sun went down. Rhaena even requested that she be moved to a room next to her.

Every day, they grew closer together. They hawked together, rode together, and shot arrows together.

Closer, and closer, every day.

The first time they made love, it had been on the beach.

They had been taking one of their customary long walks, and the sun had been high in the noonday sky.

They had been alone, of course. They often were.

There they had been, side by side, talking about everything and nothing with hands entwined when, all of a sudden… The Queen kissed her. Not upon the cheek, but full on the lips.

It had been a bit of a surprise, and yet, a happy one nonetheless.

The Queen had pulled back for a second. "My apologies, Lady Farman, but, ever since I saw you… I've been wanting to do that for a while."

In lieu of a verbal reply, Elissa returned the kiss.

As it deepened, they had tumbled to the ground and unlaced the other's gowns. Soon enough, they were lost in a wave of exploring mouths, roving fingers, and fiery ecstasy.

For what seemed like the first time… the intensity of the song lessened.

For the first time… the horizon did not beckon.

She had found something else.

* * *

For the next few years, Elissa and her Queen knew nothing but happiness, on Fair Isle.

Nearly every day, Elissa took Rhaena sailing on the shining waters, and Rhaena, in turn, took Elissa on Dreamfyre, far above the clouds, where it seemed as if all life was still and bright.

Every night, they made love, long into the early hours of the morning, until they were always left breathless and covered in sweat and other such fluids and the remnants of their ecstasy.

It was paradise.

Elissa had hoped it would never end, and she knew that her queen felt the same.

But all things had to end, did they not?

When the order from the monster came, even Elissa's brave and genial father could do not but obey.

Thus, was Rhaena all but forced leave Far Isle… and thus Elissa.

Elissa returned to her ships that day and spoke little.

When the news of Maegor and Rhaena's marriage had spread throughout the realm, Elissa spoke to no one but did not return to land for nearly a month. When she did, she was thin, weather-beaten, and her skin was browned by the sun.

There was only the song to comfort her. It soothed her and held her close.

She mourned for her love and then focused ever on the distant horizon.

She busied herself by creating plans for the sort of ship that would be needed for such a journey beyond the setting sun; deeper hulls, a broader beam, and a plethora of sails, as well as being able to support a large, self-sufficient crew and pantry.

She had even thought of a name for it.

The _Sunchaser_.

When the news of Maegor's humiliation and defeat at Beleriand spread throughout the realm, Elissa felt slightly elated. The whole realm quietly celebrated.

Then came the next six years, and news of the Monster's insanity spread far and wide.

The entire realm waited with bated breath for the sight of the Black Dread's wings covering the sky.

Elissa distracted herself by focusing on the sea. After all, even dragonfire could be doused by the ocean water.

Those six years were horrid, if only for the uncertainty that seemed to clog up the very air.

Then he was found dead, Jaehaerys and his family returned, alongside the elves, and the whole realm cheered and celebrated.

All that mattered to Elissa was that her Queen was free and that she had returned to her. That was celebration enough.

* * *

When her queen returned to her, Elissa had been overjoyed. In turn, Rhaena had been beyond joy to have reunited with Elissa.

They were happy, even if Rhaena had to marry sweet little Androw to keep up appearances.

Still, there were more happy days than there were bad. Rhaena brought in the rest of her favorites, such as plump Alayne and boisterous Samantha, and their days were filled with flying, sailing, and laughter, while their nights were filled with passion and love.

And yet, through all of that happiness and joy, it never escaped Elissa's notice… that her queen was not the same.

At times, she would wake up sobbing and screaming in the middle of the night, and Elissa would have to hold her tight until she quieted down.

Other times she seemed… forceful. Domineering. Everyone had to do what she wanted. Their own ideas were secondary to her own. If she wanted to take them flying, then they went flying. If Rhaena wished to go sailing, then they were all on a boat within the hour. It was her way only. Her desires were paramount, and everyone else's was… of no import.

Still, aside from that, she was the same, and Elissa hoped that, with time, her queen would heal, and regain her previous self.

During the years they lived on Fair isle, it seemed as if she would.

But like any dream… it never lasted.

* * *

If Elissa had ever decided to try and pinpoint one particular moment when it all started to fall apart, then she would have decided that it was the Hightower Wedding.

It had seemed like a happy occasion. When was a wedding not? At least when it came to the celebration portion.

It had been the first time Elissa had seen the famed elves of Beleriand. As had been described, they were quite beautiful, almost unearthly in fact… and somehow sad. But beautiful, none the less.

Especially the bride. She had been… radiant.

It had been a joyous occasion, to Elissa's reckoning. But her queen, she had seemed… distant.

Disdainful, even.

It was especially so when she saw her twin daughters, who looked like her in every way. Her queen writ small, in physicality.

But her queen hardly spoke to them. She would only look upon them from afar, as well as the tall elf maiden who accompanied the two little girls everywhere, and who they hung on to… as if she were their mother.

Her queen had been in sullen silence the whole seven days of the celebration and deigned not to speak to any elves or even her own siblings. One day, she refused to leave the apartments that Elissa and Rhaena, and Androw had been given during their stay at the Hightower.

Still, it had been a most enjoyable seven days.

The Melody had never sounded so wonderful.

* * *

Following the wedding, they returned to Far Isle. Despite her attitude at the wedding, Rhaena spoke not a word about it, and so, Elissa' queen continued on as always with Elissa, Alayne, and Sam.

Just the four of them… even if her queen seemed angrier on some days.

But, again, for the most part… everything had been fine.

Then… father had died, and everything truly began to change.

* * *

Elissa had always loved her father. He had been kind, jovial, and had always seemed larger than life, bigger than his frame had made him initially seem. He had instilled in her his love of the sea and had always been there for her, ever willing to lend a kindly ear. Unlike Franklyn, he had never really tried to control her.

It had seemed unfair that he had to die, choking on a fishbone.

A fishbone. A fucking fishbone!

It still beggared belief.

Of course, he had hardly been put in the ground when Franklyn all but ordered her queen and her friends to leave Fair Isle.

He then had the audacity to try and make Elissa remain of Fair Isle at the docks. The fucking bastard.

But he got what he deserved, that day. Elissa had never laughed so hard as she had when the dockworkers and the rest of the smallfolk promptly tossed the bastard in a ship's hold. She hoped that he would always smell of cod after that day.

She never really knew that it would be the last time that she would ever set foot upon Fair Isle.

* * *

Elissa's first impression of Dragonstone was that it was a most foreboding place. It also looked like a place that no sane person would ever want to live upon.

Then again, she was not a Targaryen.

The air was filled with the low roars of dragons when their boats docked at Dragonstone's port. Still, the sun was shining brightly in the sky, and the journey had not been turbulent, so Elissa thought those to be good omens. Plus, there was a lovely view of the narrow sea.

That night, she and Rhaena made love three times in the bedroom of the Conqueror himself, alongside Alayne, and Sam.

During the day, when not flying or sailing with her queen and her friends, Elissa entertained herself by exploring the island, though she made sure to steer clear of the wild dragon nests.

Though, at times, the song felt… muted, on the island. It was disconcerting, but bearable, as long as she was by the side of her queen.

Elissa also took the time to get to know her love's two daughters, fearless Rhaella and demure Aerea. The two had taken to her, though not instantaneously, for they had not been happy with being taken away from the side of the elf maiden she had seen them with at the Hightower Wedding.

She educated them about sailing, navigating by stars, and getting a feeling for the waves. She also told them stories about her travels around Westeros, including a small skirmish she had at the Stepstones. Fiery little Rhaella especially took to the stories of travel and adventure. Every time, she would ask Elissa to take her with her on her next adventure, and Elissa would laugh and say that she would when the little girl was older.

In turn, the little ones told her all they knew about the elves, especially about the tall and austere elven maiden they had been with at the Hightower wedding. They even taught Elissa the basics of the elvish language.

But she learned rather quickly to never repeat any of it in front of her love. The mere mention of the elves would darken her queen's mood for days.

* * *

As the days and months passed, Elissa felt weary. Weary of Dragonstone. She yearend to sail away, to find a boat, a _Sunchaser_, and sail far beyond the sunset sea.

She would ask her queen, and Rhaena would say no.

No, no, a thousand times no.

* * *

She could remember clearly, the first time that Rhaena had hit her. She had not even been discussing the _Sunchaser_. Instead, she had broached the subject of letting her daughters visit Dorne, and see the elf Aredhel. They had not been allowed to attend her wedding to the Sword of The Morning.

Rhaena's face twisted at the suggestion. The next thing Elissa had known, she was seeing stars.

Rhaena did not speak to her for an entire day after that. Then she had apologized, but in a way that made it seem as if _Elissa _should have been the one to apologize. That intimation hurt worse than the first slap.

The second time had been about the _Sunchaser_. The others? Less remarkable.

Perhaps she should have seen it coming, cresting over the proverbial horizon. Perhaps at the moment that Rhaena had started to grip her breasts so tightly in bed that Elissa would cry out from the pain.

After the final time Rhaena hit her, Elissa knew she could not stay. She could no longer stay on the island of Dragonstone, and she could no longer stay with Rhaena Targaryen. She was a broken thing, broken beyond any and all repair.

But Elissa would not be broken.

Rhaena cajoled, pleaded, begged, and even threatened her to stay. But Elissa would not be cowed. Even when Rhaena hit her hard enough to leave a bruise.

Elissa still left for Driftmark the following day, with her head held high… even if Rhaella's tears had rent at her heart.

Maybe one day, she would come back for them and set them free from their mother.

But the melody sang louder as she left the island, so she knew that this was right.

Of course, she had taken her own little bit of revenge on the woman who she had once loved. That revenge was currently in her room, sitting in a sea chest.

They would help her to chase the sun, beyond the horizon.

* * *

From Driftmark, she made her way to Pentos, and then towards Braavos.

The day of her arrival, after sailing through the legs of the Titan, she wandered through the city, her precious sea chest upon her back, alongside what little else she had. She had read that you never openly wore a sword at night, lest she become drawn into a duel, and the sun was already beginning to set.

She wandered through the canals, and marveled at the peoples and things she saw; at the myriad bridges and statues of dead Sealords, the bravos with their thin swords, the courtesans with their open wares, the oyster sellers, the countless small islands, the songs, the dark clothes, and the city itself. She wandered and marveled at it all, until she grew hungry and tired, and rented a room at an inn.

Everyone she met was so very kind.

She slept for several hours, the first time in a few years that she had ever truly slept alone. The next day, she rose early, and wandered through the mist-shrouded canals, making her way northeast to the Sealord's Palace, with its domes and towers and thunderbolts.

Through guile, cunning, and definitely more than a bit of luck, Elissa secured an audience with the Sealord. Although, a small portion of her mind had found to be almost… too easy.

Still, the Sealord had been jovial enough, and kindly enough. Of course, he had been most eager to look upon the cargo she had promised him.

Such pretty things they were too. White-and-gold, black-and-red, and green-and-bronze.

The Sealord had been willing to part with a great deal of gold for them; more money than Elissa could ever imagine existing.

So much gold.

That night, she bought a courtesan for the evening, with blue eyes and dark hair. The lovely woman and her nimble fingers ad tongue made Elissa scream long and hard into the late hours, and it had felt so very _good_.

In the next two years, she hired the finest shipwrights in the city to help bring her dream to life, the _Sunchaser._

She made sure to help with any and all parts of the process when she could.

* * *

_59 AC_

There it stood before her, and she was beautiful beyond compare, beautiful and mighty, as she floated in the harbor.

The product of two long and happy years; _The Sunchaser_.

Such a proud-looking vessel, this carrack.

Soon, it would set sail.

She looked all about her, at the city that had been her home for the past two years. She would miss it, with its canals, temples, bravos, courtesans, bridges, and shipyards.

But the Sealord had been adamant. She was too dangerous for Braavos to safely hold since King Jaehaerys was calling for her head and since the visit of the King's own Hand to the city, Lord Celeborn.

But Elissa was not one who was so easily cowed. No man or woman would cow her, or break her.

She was like the sea, after all, and the sea could not be broken.

She had her ship and the beginnings of a crew…

* * *

She sailed for Oldtown the next day. It was a week of calm waters, with the melody crooning in her ears.

She sailed into Oldtown harbor under the name 'Alys Westhill,' and advertised for a crew while stocking up on foodstuffs and wine and water and supplies.

While she had offered thrice the normal wages that most sailors received, a practical part of her mind had not been expecting much in way of sailors; sellsails eager for coin and adventure, sea-faring small folk looking for work and a way out of poverty, men fleeing from debts and things, and perhaps a few crusty old salts looking for one last adventure before they returned to the sea.

To her amazement, her advertisements attracted the attention of Eustace and Norman Hightower, grandsons of Manfred, nephews of Beren Hightower, and renowned mariners in their own rights.

She had thought they had come to arrest her per the king's orders (and, indeed, they had later admitted to considering the idea). Instead, they came to join her, adding their own considerable resources, and ships, to the mix.

With their patronage and good names, her crew rapidly swelled with eager sailors and workers (though the gold probably helped as well).

By the time the Order of the Dragon and the Oldtown soldiers caught up, Elissa and her new companions, plus greatly enlarged crews and supplies, were already sailing away towards the setting sun. The_ Sunchaser_, accompanied by Eustace's _Lady Ceryse _and Norman's _Autumn Moon._

But that was not the end of it. Far from it, in fact. Several leagues from Westeros's coasts, they sighted a large Ironborn ship sailing towards them and… waving a white flag of truce.

Several decried it as a trick, Elissa was intrigued. She let the carrack draw up alongside the _Sunchaser_. A moment later, the captain was aboard, alone as a sign of good faith.

To Elissa's slight surprise, the captain was a woman. She was tall and willowy with dark-red hair and eyes that never seemed to stay one color, which that stared out from a tanned and scarred face. Yet, there was clear muscle beneath her leathers and chain. The sword and ax that hung on her back and at her hip, their handles looked well-worn and well used.

Her name was Sigrid Farwynd of the Lonely Light, and she and her crew wanted to join Elissa's expedition, having heard word of her proposed voyage from the mainland.

It was surprising, as Ironborn were not normally so willing to work with those they deemed 'greenlanders.' Elissa had been about to refuse, until Selkie looked straight at her, and mentioned that she too heard the melody.

At that moment, it rose to a kindly crescendo in Elissa's ears. She could tell that Sigrid heard it too.

The next day, they sailed further out, now a group of four; _Sunchaser, Lady Ceryse, Autumn Moon, _and _Nagga's Fin. _

* * *

Days turned to weeks, and into a few months, as the four sailed on. Past even the isle of Farwynd, where they briefly stocked up further and sailed further.

As they sailed through storms and calms and winds and waves and whales and even a few krakens, the crews of all four ships all became tighter than blood. They were a family, bound by salt and sweat and tar and ropes and winches and wine and water and waves. Elissa felt herself growing particularly close to Sigrid Farwynd, with her dark eyes and great manner, and her giant, eagle-sized pet white raven Günnar, who seemed to know more than a giant white raven ever should. The Ironborn taught her more ship-board combat, and sparred with her in their free times, teaching Elissa how to fight with ax and shield in hand. To her happiness, during their sessions, Elissa soon discovered that the Ironborn woman felt the same way about her when, after a particularly hard spar, Sigrid kissed her.

When Elissa and Sigrid made love for the first time, it was on the deck and under the stars. In their passion, their bodies undulated and moved and rose and fell with the ebb and flow of the tides against the ship. Unlike on the mainland, no one made any fuss or clamor about it. You learned to look past such things on a ship, after all.

The only downside was the lack of exotic lands that they discovered. All they did find were three uninhabited islands. At best, they were a mountain attended by two medium hills.

They made landfall, restocked, repaired, and pondered what to do next. Some thought they had gone far enough, and others agreed with Elissa's desire to head further west.

_Autumn Moon _had been battered and cracked by the last storm they had braved through. Unwilling to abandon his brother, Eustace stated that the _Lady Ceryse _would tow the _Autumn Moon_ to the Summer Isles for repairs, and then they would sail home to Oldtown. They were satisfied with their discovery of the three Islands. After all, it was further than any had gone before. Besides, there was always next time.

Elissa was saddened to see them leave their ad-hoc family of mariners, but it was their choice.

At daybreak, two days later, the company parted ways, two ships back towards the east…and two ever onward towards the west.

It would be the last time she ever saw them…

* * *

After a week of further sailing, the storm hit.

It started with increasing winds and then continued with rising waves, and the waters becoming rougher the farther they sailed. Then, the skies began to darken, with rumbling thunder, and lightning that danced in jagged ways across the sky.

They could not see the stars.

As the waves and winds butted and smashed against the hulls, the sound of a large and loud _Crack_ signaled the beginning of the end.

A large split in the mainmast, and it was threatening to snap in two, alongside strange bursts of lightning. One caught the sails on fire. Another scorched the deck, frying a man to pieces. It was almost as if the storm was _targeting _the _Sunchaser._

Though it tore at her heart, Elissa quickly ordered that the crew abandon ship, and transfer to _Nagga's Fin._

Elissa refused to be the first off of the ship, despite Sigrid's protestations. Her crew, those men and women who had served under her these past months, they came first. Them, and all they could safely transport.

As the last of the crew were hustled into the tied lifeboats, Elissa saw what appeared to be one member still left on board, on the forward deck.

She could not really make out who it was, through the whipping rain. She ran towards them, shouting for them to get on the boats.

They did not move.

Lightning flashed overhead.

She reached the crew member. They were wrapped in a dark cloak.

She put her hand on the figure's shoulder and turned them around-

Purple eyes and silver hair…

"Rhaena?" she gasped.

The impossible figure life up a hand, upon which gleamed a single band of gold…

A moment later, the knife slipped between her ribs, and pain exploded across her being.

The ringed hand then clamped down on her neck, holding her as the dagger flashed again and again and again.

As Elissa collapsed to her knees, blood pouring down her chest, the woman she once loved looked at her, her purple eyes glowing like a setting sun.

"In the end… you are still _nothing_."

There was another crack of lightning, and the Queen in the East dissipated with the wind.

A moment later, the mast snapped in twain, and Elissa lost all consciousness from the pain…

* * *

She woke up to searing pain and the sound of roasting flesh.

With a strangled scream, Elissa shot up, and hurriedly wiped off the embers and hot wood that had fallen upon her chest.

It hurt to breathe… but she was alive.

Gingerly, with a rattling breath, she looked about.

The Sunchaser was barely keeping together, singed and broken about, held together by twisted rigging and luck. Elissa was honestly surprised that the carrack was even still floating.

She dragged herself up against the remaining mast, and then, steeling herself, looked down.

Elissa Farman was made of stern stuff. The sea was in her blood, after all. But what she saw… it was a wonder that she did not faint again.

Her entire chest was a mess of dried blood and seared flesh. Every movement was filled with agony.

Wine. She needed wine. Something, anything to drink.

The sound of a raven's cry made her look up from her wounds.

Perched before her was Sigrid's white Raven, Günnar… and his black eyes were swiftly shifting colors.

Like Sigrid's…

Elissa swallowed, her throat like sand.

"Wine," she croaked to the bird. "I need wine. Or ale. Please."

Günnar cocked his head at her, and then spread his wings and flapped away.

Perhaps she was mad, the pain driving her to insanity. She had just asked a bird to get her wine. Did he even really understand?

It hurt so much.

Several moments later, the flapping of wings announced the bird's return… and a large bottle was clutched in his talons.

He gingerly alit onto the deck, and then nudged and rolled the bottle forward with his feathered head.

Perhaps she was insane. But it was better than dead.

With a shaking hand, she picked up the bottle. It was full.

She uncorked it, and then proceeded to take a good long pull from it, the wine slaking her burning thirst in her throat. It was simple, it tasted sour, and it was utterly fucking delicious.

Then, she tore a long piece from her tattered sleeve and put it into her mouth with a thick piece of timber. Günnar simply watched as, after a few breaths, she poured some of the rest of it onto her wounds.

It was a wonder that she did not bite through the wood at that moment, as the alcohol stung deeply into her wounds.

She looked around, past her ravaged ship- no, her _hulk_.

There was nothing around her but empty ocean, for leagues and every direction… and Günnar, who hopped to her side, and nuzzled his hand under her hand.

She could feel the waves pushing the boat ever about… pushed forward.

The melody was kindly in her ears.

Onward. Ever onward, towards where the sun would set. It was beautiful, that sun, as it hung low in the late afternoon sky.

She felt so tired. So very tired.

But she was a sailor. A Farman.

She would die on her feet.

In a few swallows, she downed the rest of the simple and sour wine, and then let the bottle drop from her fingers onto the deck, where it rolled away.

With a groan of pain hissed through gritted teeth, she gripped onto the mast behind her, and slowly, _slowly_pulled herself up to her feet. Her grip was still tight.

Her breathing rattled about in her throat as she gingerly, _gingerly_ made her way to the ship's wheel. She nearly fell several times, but she would not fall.

She would die on her feet, overlooking the horizon, like a true and proper sailor, and like a true and proper explorer.

Miraculously, the wheel was undamaged.

She draped herself against it, barely upright. On the railing next to her, Günnar perched himself.

That horizon… it was just so beautiful.

Wait… was that…

Yes, yes it was!

Land! That was land! She had done it! A new land!

The melody in her ears turned sonorous and grand, and she laughed and whooped for joy as tears streamed down her face.

"I've done it!" she cried out into the clear sky. "I've done it! I am something! I am me!"

She was so excited; she could not wait to explore it. New peoples to meet, new sights to see!

As the _Sunchaser_ drew closer, the melody grew grander still. Before her, there rose a great and grand figure from the water's depths. He seemed as tall as the Hightower, with skin like the water from which he had emerged, and armor like that of coral. His bearded face was kindly, and his deep eyes were full of wisdom. It reminded her of her father.

Slowly, she removed herself from the helm, and dragged herself towards the prow of the ship, with a hand reached out towards the towering figure, and towards the new land.

A moment later, she fell lightly to the water below. Then, someone caught her.

It was a beautiful woman, taller than the tallest man, and she cradled Elissa in her arms as one would a child. Her skin was luminous, and her shining hair was so long, it seemed to thread into the ocean around them.

The radiant woman looked at her with kindness and kissed her gently upon her brow.

The giant figure then reached down towards Elissa, and the radiant woman deposited her into his hand, a hand that seemed the size of a lifeboat.

Gently, he brought her up before his great face.

_THOU HAST TRAVELED FAR, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA, DAUGHTER OF MINE HEART. THY JOURNEY AND PAIN ARE AT AN END. THE WIND WAS YOUR STEED, AND NOW THOU HAST COME HOME AT LAST. REST NOW, KNOWING THAT YOU HAVE LIT THE WAY, AND THAT THY NAME SHALL BE SUNG UPON THE LIPS OF ALL WHO DWELL UNDER MINE EYE. _

_REST, AND BE AT PEACE._

Yes. Rest. That sounded lovely. As lovely as the melody that now crooned so gently in her ears.

She was so tired, after all.

In a life of sea and ships and love and heartbreak… she held no regrets.

Now, she could rest.

Elissa Farman closed her eyes, and let the melody carry her, far away.

At long last, she was home…

* * *

**_The Eternal_**

_The Lonely Light_

With a gasp, they who were currently called Sigrid Farwynd opened their eyes and rose from their bed.

Tregor Farwynd, their body's nephew, looked up at their awakening. "What is it, oh great one? What have you seen, that your mind was away for so long?"

"Paradise," said they who were currently Sigrid Farwynd, as tears rand down their face. "We have seen paradise."

They then stood up. "Gather the rest of the house, the rest of our family. There is much work yet to be done."

* * *

_Sothoryos_

_62 AC_

_ To whosoever finds this journal, know that these are the last words and writings of Ser Eustace Hightower, brother of Norman, grandson of Manfred Hightower, son of Martyn, and nephew of Beren. _

_ For over half a year, I, my brother, and what remain of our crews have been marooned on this… this hell. _

_ Sothoryos. A land that not even the Valyrians would colonize. A land that even my uncle's own beloved elves would wash their hands of it. _

_ This land… it is hell. Sure, there are riches here to found; gold, emeralds, spices and such… but such treasures are not worth even a moment upon this gods-forsaken land. _

_ We have learned very quickly to not venture into the forests at night and to keep the fires lit at all times on the beach. Even then, some of the monsters still venture out. We have taken to tying ropes through the openings in the trees, strung through with anything that can rattle. _

_ Every day, we lose more and more men. We are less than half of what we were now, the rest lost to death and strange diseases and fevers; skin sloughing off, blood leaking from cock and eyes and ears and arse, tiny worms in the water. _

_ This is hell. If you are reading this, then the merciful thing to do would be to slit your own throat. _

_ If you read this and can escape, then beg and plead with the Targaryens to take their dragons and burn this hell to ash and cinders. _

_ It won't be long now until nightfall, and until we lose the strength to fight off the beasts that dwell within. And they know it, the monsters. _

_ By the gods, they **know**_.

With a ragged sigh, Eustace, shut the journal, and emerged from the beached hull of the _Autumn Moon_, and towards the firepits and trenches set around the perimeter of their camp.

The sun had almost finished setting.

Norman nodded at him; his grip tight on his bow as the men lit the perimeter fires. "Brother."

"Brother."

Norman swallowed. "When do you think they will strike?"

"The minute the sun finishes setting. Doubtful we'll last the night this time. Those bastards know it, too."

Eustace sighed. "Aye. So be it. At least we'll die with weapons in hand."

He then signaled to his first mate, Annakko Swann, known to the crew as 'Anaconda' due to his great height, and his thick and rippling muscles.

The first mate nodded and readied his goldenwood bow, a thing so massive that it would have taken two or three men to draw back on it.

He nocked an arrow to the bow and drew back the string with one hand. The rest of the men who could shoot readied their own bows and windlass crossbows. The rest drew swords and axes and clubs.

Behind them, the sun finished setting.

Everything went quiet, deathly so.

No one dared to even breathe.

One moment…

Two heartbeats…

Three…

The ropes twanged and rattled, and a loud roar filled the air!

"Here the bastards come! Nock and loose! Send them back to hell!" Eustace bellowed.

As the first swarm of the monsters barreled out of the jungle forest, the men let loose their arrows, sending many of the first wave down to the Seven hells.

But they kept coming. By the gods, they kept coming, through the arrows and the fire. The air was soon filled with screams of men and monsters and blood.

Eustace hacked off the head of a thing with fangs and thick arms.

They would not survive the night.

Soon enough, the arrows ran out, the fires were stamped out and the men were whittled down bit by bit.

They were all going to die.

Side by side, the remainder stood, as they readied for the next wave, with their backs to the ocean.

Eustace looked towards Norman, who held his ax tight.

A single nod.

The monsters came closer.

Eustace raised his bloody sword high. "WE LIGHT THE WAY!"

As one, the men roared and charged forward. They would die, but by the goods, would they make the bastards work for it!

Then, out of forests came another cry, strong and firm, so much unlike the guttural roars of the monsters.

"**_Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"_**

Out of the woods came a veritable wave of steel and bellows and stooped figures and flashing weapons.

The strange wave fell upon the monsters, this time filling the air with the screams of dying creatures.

Eustace and the others watched in dumfounded shock at the sight before them.

Soon enough, the slaughter had ended, and the few surviving creatures loped back into the woods with whimpers and screams.

Their strange saviors looked around, and then towards the Oldtown sailors.

Half of them were like the strange ape-men that Eustace and the others had glimpsed and fought off over the year, except these looked better groomed and wore metal armor.

The other figures were, for lack of a better description, _squat, _and bristling with well-crafted arms and armor and helmets.

One of them approached, and took off its helmet, to reveal a square face framed by a great, bristling beard and hair that fell down to its waist.

Its nose looked much-broken, and its eyes gleamed with insight.

It looked like an ibbenese, but not as hairy.

"Apologies for not coming sooner, longlegs," it said, with an accent like grating stones. "Come. Methinks there be much to discuss."

* * *

**_ When Eustace and Norman Hightower returned from Elissa Farman's ill-fated journey, they and the remnants of their crew were not alone. _**

**_ They were accompanied by iron ships that crested from beneath the waves. They were crewed by strange folk; short and squat they were, with great beards and weapons and armor and things. _**

**_ Some thought them ibbenese, but these were not the furred whalers of Essos. _**

**_ These were the dwarves…_**

**_From _****A History of the Realms and its Races**

**_Penned by _****Maester Gorman**

* * *

_57 AC _

_Braavos_

Allaquo liked to think of himself as an average Braavosi, let alone an Average Sealord; he was never needlessly cruel, he paid his respects to the Faceless men and the Iron Bank and he did his best to govern the people whilst keeping the merchants and other factions from tearing each other apart.

Of course, he did have his vices; he loved the touch of women, and he was always weak to the lure money, and never turned down a deal that was sure to net him more.

Deals such as the one he had just made.

But, unlike all the others, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

Still, there was no going back now, despite his reservations. Far too late.

He carried the chest with the eggs down to the cavernous cellars of the Sealord's palace.

Once he set it upon the stone floor, he swallowed and spoke out. "I have them. As I promised."

One by one, the cellar's torches went out until there was naught but darkness.

_"And they are real?"_

Despite the terrible grandeur of the voice, Allaquo remained standing. "Yes. They are."

Behind him, the voice came again. _"Good. It is good that you have upheld your end of the bargain."_

Shaking, he turned around, and beheld the figure whom he had struck the bargain with, all those months ago; tall and clothed in dark shadow and robes and armor, and a face covered with a strange and alien mask.

The figure practically radiated darkness.

"Bu-bu-but of course," Allaquo stammered. "I… I am a man of my word, after all."

The figure cocked its head at him, and Allaquo felt as if he were an insect and the figure a giant debating whether or not to crush him underfoot.

_"Yes. You are. A man of your word, and greed. Still, you have carried out your task to the best of your meager abilities. You have returned that which was stolen from us. You will get your gold, as much as you want. It is only fair, after all."_

Allaquo blinked, and, when he opened his eyes, the figure and the chest of dragon eggs were gone….

* * *

**A/N: I am so sorry for how long this chapter took. Real life is just a pain. I have been working on other stories. **

**As you can see, things continue to get very, very interesting for Westeros. The dwarves have come. Also, rest assured that Elissa' journey will have great importance down the years. After all, she has lit the way. **


End file.
